Lost and Found
by Ranowa Hikura
Summary: After vanishing without a trace for three months, McGee turns up as a John Doe in Bethesda's ER. Set before Ziva leaves, no pairings, McGee-centric.
1. Chapter 1

First thing's first: I'm going to apologize now for long waits between updates. I've taken a hiatus from fanfiction to work on an original novel, and, in fact, am STILL on that hiatus- this file is just for me to open up when for the life of me I just don't want to work on my novel right then. This fic is second priority right now for me. That being said- and I'm really, really sorry I had to say it- if you ever want status on how it's coming along or want to make sure I haven't abandoned it, feel free to PM me! I've taken a hiatus from fanfiction writing but still respond to reviews/messages!

Secondly, I promise that aside form what the first scene may convey, this will be McGee-centric. It started off with me wanting to show what affect his disappearance had had on the team- then somehow, became this. This is still going to be a McGee-centric fic, though.

Now- (disclaimer, I own nothing)- I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

 **August 17th, 2008**

The apartment wasn't as silent as one might expect.

The hum of the air conditioner and refrigerator; the gentle whir of a dozen and one computers and one very well kept typewriter. Not that the typewriter made any noise. For something so noisy while in use, it was curiously silent when left alone.

That silence was mirrored, somehow, throughout the apartment, intensifying in the white noise of life until it was so oppressive in the dusty air that it was hard to breathe.

Even the sounds of Abby sleeping felt- wrong, somehow. Out of place.

Tony looked at the goth again, eyes moving slowly over her passed out form. She was curled up in one corner of the couch to the extreme, squished as tiny as she could manage so she hardly even took up a cushion. It didn't look like she had intended to go to sleep there; by her wet face and the plush hippo squashed in her arms, Tony would've guessed she'd cried herself to sleep.

The purpling circles under her eyes, the paleness that left her appearance less vampiric and more sickly as of late, told him it probably hadn't taken her long to pass out.

He frowned, moving closer to her claimed couch. By the looks of things, Abby really had taken up residence in McGee's apartment. Sure, maybe the two were the Ross and Rachel of NCIS; will they, won't they- but this was definitely wrong.

Of course, he couldn't claim that he was faring much better. He still worked the case; many late nights now spent hitting the streets, following up with contacts Ziva would never have and those that didn't keep computerized records for Abby to hack. He'd bet a month's wages that Abby'd already hacked every file with even a mention of McGee in the past months, from his medical records to his high school yearbook.

It didn't stop her from still working until her eyes were red and she could barely think straight.

It didn't stop him breaking his knuckles in a punch against concrete from nothing more than agonized frustration.

Tony gave a long, defeated sigh and looked away. Who was he kidding? He could hardly judge Abby for camping on McGee's couch. The second talk of a replacement had began, he'd grabbed McGoof's ridiculous, hypoallergenic, professional, favorite screen-cleaning cloth and stowed it in his desk's lockbox for safe keeping. No temp was touching it.

He didn't even know screen-cleaning cloths were a thing, nor could he understand why McGee had such an attachment to it. But the kid had almost had an aneurysm when it had gone missing under the Great Paperstorm of 2003, and that was all Tony needed to know.

The cold, two-fingered graze at his neck made him jump. It took all his self control not to swear, and instead just look irritably at Ziva. She stood behind him, half in the apartment's shadow, half in the hallway's light, features hidden in the low light but surely as unreadable as the stone she could cut herself from in times of great need. Her dark eyes moved from him to Abby, resting on her friend in an undefined emotion that Tony just might categorize as regret.

"It seems that Abby has been paying the rent here for the past three months, as well as all other utilities." There was a short pause in which Ziva folded her arms, what little Tony could see of her of her expression turning darker. "...Is denial how you Americans cope, or is this one of those other traits that only Abby has?"

"Denial?" he questioned back, just as quietly.

Ziva shrugged. "The way I understand it, after forty eight hours, statistically, chances of recovery are slim. After this extended period of time, the chances are... well, they are dismal, Tony. Astronomical. Yet, Abby does not relent."

Tony knew her well enough now; knew the cold detachment in her was not a sign of her not caring, but, in reality, was a sign that she cared too much. Distancing herself was how Ziva dealed. For someone who had dealt with too much loss in her life, it could be seen as easier not to feel at all.

The day he ever felt like that, Tony knew it would be time to resign.

"Yeah, well, you know Abby," he grunted and stood as quietly as he could, unwilling to get into this discussion with her now. Or ever. "Stubborn to a fault. Ziva, I'm going to try and clean up a little. You should stay with her, in case she wakes up."

"...Tony."

The effort to come to not just keep walking and, instead, to hold his ground and face what Ziva had to say, was far larger than he would like to admit.

Turning revealed that Ziva had moved- silent, as always, so disturbingly silent- out of the light to stand entirely in the darkness of the apartment. Expression shadowed, all there was to see was the stubborn set of her jaw, the hard glint of her eyes that bespoke of emotion again, emotion that Tony didn't want to define.

"I do not know how it is here, but in Mossad, there comes a time when you must accept and move on." She spoke quickly, like the words were poison that she desperately wanted to vent; desperation, yep, that was there, too. Ziva's voice did not crack or break like most; she had spent long enough containing emotion and forbidding it from being released that when she broke, that, too, was disguised. Transformed into a way where she looked and sounded whole, even as the world fell apart. "In Israel, missing in action means killed in action. Terrorists do not take prisoners; they take lives."

"Well, this isn't a terrorist, now is it, Ziva? Unless McGoo's gone McSecretSpy on us, seems like the grudge terrorists have with us would be with _Gibbs,_ not our hacker." He shrugged easily. Probably too easily, by the way her eyes narrowed when he did it. "And this is America, Ziva, not Israel."

He definitely sounded too irritated to pull off the unaffected facade, but that was because he _was_ irritated, damn it. And Ziva would've called him out on it had she not been surely fighting to accept her own words. "One does not simply vanish into thin air, Tony. Being alive leaves a trace. ...We have found no trace."

"That's right; it doesn't. That's what you're trying to say, though, isn't it?" When Ziva just stared, lost, he pressed on before he had time to regret it. "He's dead. That's what you're trying to tell me, right? That he's dead? Funny; I haven't heard you admit that to yourself, either."

The look the flickered across her face for barely even a millisecond was enough to make hot tempers cool. In just that tiny second she'd looked hurt- there was no other word for it.

Tony closed his eyes, sighing again. This wasn't easy for either of them. And now was probably the worst time to argue it, Abby asleep mere feet away, and the worst location, smack dab in the middle of his apartment.

When he opened his eyes again, anger already forgotten in place of a strange hollowness that somehow hurt, Ziva's hard stare was all that greeted him. Seemed he'd have to be the bigger man. "...Sorry," he grunted gruffly, voice still low for Abby's sake.

She looked away briefly, eyes hidden by a long stretch of hair that had escaped from her ponytail. Her gaze went to Abby again, and he saw her soften, the lines of tension fading in her stance that was always stiff with coiled grace and alertness. "I am sorry, too," she said at length, and the iron facade was gone now, her voice only supported by the steely, nearly invulnerable undercurrent she had cultivated throughout years of heartbreak. "Tony, I have lost many people. When I came to NCIS, I had hoped to get away from it all... I had hoped that I would not come to care for any of you. It only hurts if you care."

He raised an eyebrow. "Should've asked me for advice. I could've told you how many times that didn't work out for any number of secret agents, criminals turned samaritans, widows turned superheroes- or villains-"

"Yes, I am sure you could have. And I am sure it ended just as well for all your stupid movies as it did for me, Tony." Her voice picked up again, in both speed and volume until it broke over just for a second on too loud for comfort. They both stopped, turning to stare at Abby; the goth snuffled once, then just dropped back into her sleep.

Her eyes flashing, Ziva turned back towards him, her voice again a whisper. "McGee and I were never supposed to be friends. He was never supposed to tell me which bus to take, or help me with my silly American phone, or..." She chuckled softly. "Or convince Abby to give me a chance." She took a deep, shuddering breath, turning away from the couch to look at him again. "...And now he is dead."

Tony could not contain the flinch; it was all he could do to hold back the selfish exclamation that she was wrong. _He_ didn't believe McGee was dead. There was nothing pointing to that; no dammed thing, and until there was, then he was alive. That was how it worked.

Until they found a body, McGee was still his probie, and his probie didn't _get_ to just quit on him.

But, Ziva wasn't him- and Ziva had lost a lot of people in her life. She'd probably gone through her own phases of refusing to accept what would eventually become reality. _She_ needed to think that he was dead. _She_ needed to accept what was, to her, the truth.

Him trying to stop her would only make everything worse.

He watched her for another long few, silent moments. Watched as she collected herself in the faint light, still raw, still hurt, but not falling apart. She took several shaking breaths again, and with each one a resolve formed in place, a cold sort of thing that Tony really didn't think he was going to like; Ziva at last regained all of her composure, what had almost become a breakdown contained again. Hazel eyes moved to find his, hard and unreadable again in a way that left him worried for what was to come.

"Ziva?"

"McGee and I being friends was never supposed to happen, Tony." She spoke curiously, voice cold and detached, somehow; her face was a seamless statue cut from unfeeling marble. "And, you and I... whatever it is that we are... that really was not supposed to happen."

Yeah- he wasn't going to like where this was going. At all.

"...What are you saying?" he managed; his voice felt distant to even himself, flat and unconnected to the growing, cold feeling inside him.

"I am saying that this was a mistake."

He almost laughed. It was ironic, of course; Ziva would be the one to shy away from commitment from whatever _this_ was, not him the infamous commitment-phobe, but her.

 _Almost_ laughed.

"Ziva-"

"I am not all right, Tony. I am not _all right_ right now, at all. And, not to diminish what he was to me, McGee was just my friend. You are-!"

 _Occasional lover?_

 _Best friend?_

 _Partner?_

So much more, Tony decided. That was all their relationship could be described as- so much more than friends.

Hot emotions became lingering pain, and Ziva just shook her head helplessly. "If McGee has left me not all right, Tony, I do not care to think of what you would leave me as."

"I'm still here, though, Ziva."

He trembled with the ferocity of sheer desperation that he didn't want to see grow into despair at what he knew was coming. He held out a hand, a final lifeline, should she choose to take it, but already knew the outcome long before she turned away from him in firm refusal.

"And some day, Tony, you will not be."

He was left staring as Ziva vanished out the door, silent as ever and fleeing the complicated mess of a partnership they had found that he had still never managed to regret. Even now, when this strange hollow feeling had expanded in his chest until it felt hard to breathe.

Alone- again.

Tiredly, Tony dragged himself to sit across from Abby, trying to make himself focus on his original reason for coming here and forget what it had devolved into. There was not believing he was dead, and then there was moving into his apartment, wearing his clothes, paying his bills- the girl had a serious problem, and they'd originally come to talk to her about it.

Except, there was no _they,_ anymore, and Tony somehow didn't think he would be any good at convincing Abby that her Tim wasn't coming back.

Neither was Ziva.

Miserably, Tony dropped his head into his hands, resigning himself to another brand of loneliness, different from the hole his probie had left when he'd disappeared but no less potent.

He wondered when, if ever, he would get it that sticking himself out there only ended badly.

 **August 18th, 2008**

The moment Tony and Ziva reached the crime scene, Gibbs knew something was off.

They weren't speaking except over the case, and while the blissful silence was definitely a nice change, it was unnerving to say the least. What few words they did exchange, while strictly work related, were also troublesome; Ziva was cold and short, and Tony was bitingly sarcastic, both signs that the two were preoccupied and would rather be anywhere but here.

He groaned inwardly.

At least, the case was shaping up to be rather simple. A probable drunk driver had driven straight into the wall of a navy base, then panicked and abandoned his then totaled vehicle, leaving behind an injured passenger who was now hospitalized. The area was surveilled, so it was looking to be an open and shut case; unless their search of his car turned up drugs, illegal weapons, or human body parts, for once, they'd be going home at five. Gibbs had been planning on heading back to NCIS after the crime scene and leaving Tony and Ziva to interview the passenger, but by the way they were behaving they'd kill each other they even got there.

"Hey, Boss, we got a problem here."

Or, perhaps he should never count his chickens before they hatched. Rubbing his eyes, Gibbs quickly shook himself out out of unfocused, absentminded nonsense and moved forward to where Tony stood at the back of the car, trunk popped- to reveal blood stains.

A lot of them.

"Not enough for a dead body; more than enough to be a problem."

"You think, DiNozzo?"

Tony turned back to start taking pictures, and Gibbs looked worryingly over stains, arms folded. "Still dark... this is recent. Probably same time as the car crash." Frowning, he looked towards Ziva, at the front of the car, and headed for her to see what she'd found. "Anything out of place here?"

Ziva glanced over her shoulder, then withdrew from the front seat, pushing a strand of hair off her forehead. "Not that I can tell. Everything is consistent with the impact described; however, I can not seem to find any blood."

"Check the airbag," Tony called, "normally, it blows up in the driver's face- kablam!- and, poof, bloody nose."

"You do not think I checked for that? No blood, Tony!"

Tony's head shot around from the edge of the car like a moth drawn to a flame. A moth that fed on adolescent-esque irritating, drawn to an argumentative inferno. "Well, I just was making sure; you've been a little unobservant lately-"

"Oh, _I_ have been unobservant?!"

"Both of you, shut up."

Gibbs rubbed his forehead, trying to forestall the already coming headache. The two agents both turned to him, thankfully quiet this time, but one look at the irritation still plain on DiNozzo's face and the unwritten but still present hostility on Ziva's, and his decision was made. "I'm going to go interview the passenger."

Tony tilted his head, aggravation fading- temporarily, Gibbs was sure- for surprise. "Alone, boss?"

"Yeah. Given that this case just got hotter, I want you two going to check the surveillance tapes; start following up on our runaway driver." He started to turn, then stopped, pointing between the two of them in an authoritative wave. "And when I get back, you two are going to have worked out whatever _this_ is." He gestured vaguely between his two agents; this time there wasn't even enough of a pause for him to start his escape before the bickering started again.

"Boss, I don't know what you're talking about, we're just tired-"

"Come on, Gibbs-"

"I don't _care."_

He sighed again. Things had been tense for a while now; this was not even the first time the two had been openly argumentative from what was probably stress. For a time, he'd thought he was imagining it, the enormity of the secret weighing on his mind to create a perpetual atmosphere of tension that he envisioned the others trapped in as well- but it was undeniable.

 _He just doesn't see how much this is affecting them._

Gibbs cursed under his breath, then, wondering when exactly he'd started taking orders from junior agents.

His back to the his team now, Gibbs took advantage of the short pause needed for them to stare at him to get out of earshot before it started up again. He ducked under the crime scene tape and turned towards his car, stopping any speculations of what had happened between those two before they could get momentum. They sounded like an arguing couple, and not for the first time, either; he hated to admit that he really did not know how deeply involved they were, if they were even involved at all.

Didn't change the fact that they were fighting like a dammed married couple.

His phone vibrated gently in his pocket when he reached his car. Frowning, Gibbs pulled it out; the hopes that were dashed when he saw it wasn't an email, but a text message, were powerful enough that he almost threw the flimsy thing against the dashboard and shattered it.

Again.

He turned the key in the ignition with such violence he almost yanked it out. With an open handed smack on the dashboard, he tossed the phone into the passenger's seat and briefly leaned his head against the steering wheel, the burning leather against his forehead not even close to give him the strength to pull away.

"Damn, it McGee."

* * *

The day progressed only from bad to worse when he was greeted at the hospital, not by a nurse and a room number, but by a waiting lieutenant commander. The moment he stepped inside the hospital the doctor moved for him, clipboard in hand, features tense and guarded.

Normally he was the one waiting for the doctor.

Which, of course, just meant this case was going to be a lot more time consuming than he'd hoped.

"Agent Gibbs?"

"Commander," he returned, heading for the elevator without pause.

Clearly a bit thrown, the lieutenant stood behind for a moment, frowning, then hurried to catch up with him. "Agent Gibbs, the John Doe that came in this morning- there's something you should know."

"He doesn't show injuries typical of a car accident."

The man stopped again, hand hovering an inch away from the elevator button. "Y- yes," he stammered, staring at him in open surprise. "How'd you know?"

Sighing, Gibbs punched the button himself and remained silent. The sooner the doctor finished his explanation, the sooner he could get back to staring at his email, waiting for the message he knew in his gut wouldn't come.

Screw it.

If the status update hadn't come by quitting time tonight, he was telling his team everything.

Clearing his throat, the doctor went on when Gibbs didn't. "Well, he has extensive injuries- but none of which that are consistent with a car accident. Bullet wound to the shoulder- a couple weeks old, I think, and untreated; resulted in an infection. Malnourishment. And a strange lack of anything to the face and neck; ribs show several unhealed fractures but they're old, too. No matter how he was found, that man was not in a car when it crashed."

Gibbs sighed again. Seemed quitting time just got that much later.

"Inconsistencies with injuries are not why you were waiting for me at the entrance, commander," he said gruffly, allowing the man to lead him out of the elevator and towards the John Doe's room. He checked his phone again, grimacing when there was still nothing new.

"He woke up, sir. Told me that I needed to get in contact with Special Agent Gibbs immediately- by then you were already on the way here. Said he was a missing federal agent for NCIS, that his name was- um..." The doctor glanced down at his clipboard uncertainly, searching. "Ah, yes- Timothy-"

" _McGee."_

Whatever else the doctor said was lost to his state of breathless shock, the sight in front of him all it took to render him speechless and paralyzed- feeling rather like he'd just been punched in the gut.

It was _McGee._

Gibbs had known for a while now that his agent was alive. Even that he was somewhere in DC.

That didn't mean was prepared to see him like this.

McGee.

 _McGee._

Sickly pale and definitely fevered, forehead slick with sweat and already disheveled hair damp, his agent looked like any breach into consciousness was short lived. As of now, he tossed and turned weakly in a troubled, medicated sleep, eyes flickering uneasily through the travails of a nightmare. His left collarbone was visible through the gaping collar of the hospital gown, darkly bruised in what looked like had almost been a dislocation; his right was hidden in a crimson swath of gauze and immobilized in a sling. Gaunt and thin to the point of worry, it'd looked like he'd skipped more meals than he'd eaten, one of the several IVs in his good arm likely bringing much needed nourishment after weeks of near starvation.

He looked half-dead.

"Tim..." he gasped, staggering to the chair by his side on suddenly numb legs. "God, Tim."

 _What the hell happened to you, son?_

"...You know him, I take it?"

"Yeah," Gibbs managed weakly, raising a hand to rub over his eyes in shock. "Yeah. Tim's my agent."

The doctor paused, leaving a pregnant silence intruded on by the many beeps and hisses of the machines monitoring Tim, and Gibbs just sat there and stared, unable to take it in.

Damn it, Tim was supposed to be _fine._ Every single email he assured him of that. He never would have allowed this otherwise; the second his agent had given even a hint of being not well he would've gone to Abby, endured her accusations of betrayal and her fists against his shoulders and her enraged tears, and then made her trace the damn emails and he would've kicked down the damn door in a second.

Of course, Tim had known that, which was surely why he'd lied.

Because, his agent wasn't just unwell- he looked like he'd been sick for weeks.

For someone who, for the past three months, had only existed as a blood stain next to his abandoned car and an abstract email address, it looked like he'd spent every day only deteriorating.

On the upside, at least now he knew why there had been no status update email this morning.

The doctor moved a little closer, now that he knew the situation much more cautious and sedate. "He'll be okay, Agent Gibbs," he promised quietly; sincerely. "He's responding well to the treatment. His fever's just a little too high for comfort, now. I'll be watching it for the next several hours; if it rises I'll have to start him on a new treatment plan- but he really will recover from this. It will take time, but he'll come out just fine."

Nothing that he said would come close to appeasing the unsteady roil of gnawing guilt inside of him.

Carefully, Gibbs sat forward, looking anxiously over his agent again. Every new wound or injury he saw sent another piercing stab of regret through his heart, the pain of what he should've done easily eclipsing the simmering rage he knew would surface later. "Damn it, Tim," he muttered, reaching out a hand to touch his agent's cold and clammy one. "I told you to tell me if anything was wrong."

The moment their hands touched, all hell broke loose.

Bloodshot, green eyes met his burst open to meet his, colored instantly in extreme distress, and weak wheezing grew into a panicked gasping. Tim mouthed his name, voice too weak to speak it, then abruptly shot forward.

"Tim!" Gibbs cried, jumping forward to stop him. "Tim, calm down! You're safe here!"

McGee shook his head, still struggling to speak. "Gibbs," he finally managed on the third try, voice scratchy in his ear, "Gibbs, you're...!"

Gibbs caught him when he swayed, focus vanishing in place of a sickly green pallor. He held him up by his good shoulder and through it could feel just how thin his agent was, the boniness of his shoulder, how his body felt light as a child's, and his gut tightened. "Hey, hey, easy, Tim. Easy."

"Gibbs, you've got... to..."

"Slow down, son; I've got you."

McGee shook his head weakly, still panting hard and fighting to speak. Gibbs moved back enough to see his face, and the disorientation he found was alarming; he cautiously palmed his sweaty cheek, supporting his head. "Tim?"

"Gibbs, they've... got... him."

Tim stared at him, sheer desperation glimmering in green eyes, desperation that was quickly devolving into sheer panic- and then, he was out. One moment, his eyes were bright with fever and panic; the next they were dull, and then, they rolled back into his head, and he slumped forward, passed out again, feverish and wheezing against his shoulder.

Stunned, Gibbs sat frozen, his agent unconscious and passed out on him, the enormity of the situation hitting him full force. McGee was back. McGee was sick. McGee was _safe._

Then, what he'd said- and that look in his eyes...

There was only one thing that could mean.

His fists clenched, and he glared hard at the wall, rage coursing through his veins until he saw red.

Whoever had shot him was already living on borrowed time.

* * *

 _Author's note: I normally won't have notes at ends of chapters. Now, as this story is not pre-written, I am very open to viewer suggestions. Particularly on any possible ships. If you want/don't want Tiva or McAbby, please tell me! I will see what most people seem to want and follow that route. Also, interest in this story will determine how often I work on it. I am NOT holding chapters hostage for reviews; whenever a chapter is done, I will post it, but, currently, I'm set to work on this every weekend. If lots of you people review and show interest, I'll try and make it more often. That's all for now, everyone! Hope you enjoyed!_


	2. Chapter 2

WOWWWWW! 35 reviews in just a few days! WOW! That's easily the most response I've ever gotten for a fic! Thank you guys so much! I will definitely be working on this more often :)

The general consensus seems to be for no Tiva or McAbby, so that's what I'm going to do. For those who really wanted Tiva, well, this is a story that will be told in two parts: one part will be continuing on from last chapter, after McGee was found, the other half will be following McGee and the team when he was first abducted. I will be setting up that intro last chapter in the latter, and resolving it in the former. So there will be a little Tiva in some segments of this even if it will not end that way. (Nothing explicit)

A couple people suggested McGiva, which honestly had not even crossed my mind. I looked through a few of McGiva oneshots I could find to see what the pairing was all about- I knew nothing about it- but most were pretty OoC, and I also have zero ideas of how to implement it, so this fic won't have any pairings. Plenty of Papa Bear Gibbs, though :)

There are a few errors last chapter; most obviously, the dates. I put them in as placeholders before I knew what season I wanted this to take place in, then forgot to change them when I decided. Sorry about that! It takes places in the beginning of season 6/end of season 5, but the whole thing with Agent Lee isn't going to happen. So, no Agent Afloat for Tony, no Cyber Crimes for McGee, etc.. Also, I don't know what the heck is going on with the cover; it keeps alternating between my avatar and the screencap of McGee that I want it to be. It seems to be a problem multiple people are having: when you log out, the covers switches back to your avatar, for stories posted in the last several days. I guess I'll reset it with every update but when it inevitably fails again, enjoy Prince Zuko from Avatar, I guess.

Hope you all enjoy this one!

 **August 18th, 2008**

Gibbs didn't dare leave the hospital until the Marine guard arrived to stand at McGee's door. He'd ordered his agent be placed under round the clock guard- officially, in case the officially unknown kidnappers returned.

Unofficially, it wasn't just to keep anyone unwanted from getting in- it was to keep McGee from getting out.

He also wouldn't leave until the doctor assured him his agent was now sedated, and wouldn't wake up until the next morning at least.

Even then, he still had one thing to do before leaving the hospital.

"Tim," he muttered in his ear, eyes on the door but arm in a protective grip on his slack shoulder. "You will stay put. I will find him, I will take care of this, but you will _stay. put."_ Gibbs pulled his knife out and, without hesitation, slipped it under the blanket to press the closed weapon into Tim's limp hand. He patted the fist closed. "For protection."

It still took an unbelievable effort for him to rip himself away, and even more so to not look back and instead, turn to the elevator- already on a mission.

He paused for only a second when he pulled out his phone, torn over the consequences. He'd learned enough to know that text messages never disappeared, even when deleted; it was a risk to leave any more of this in writing than there already was.

Then he scowled, punched the elevator so hard his knuckles hurt, and started composing the message before the ache had even started to ease.

 _To DiNozzo, David, Abby, Ducky, Palmer:_

 _Autopsy. 30 minutes._

The days of secrecy were over.

* * *

" _One more movie reference, Tony, and I will-"_

"Kill me with a paperclip? Credit card? Come onnnn, Ziva, get some new threats; your usual ones are getting old."

"Don't shove it!"

Ducky raised an eyebrow, taking one final look at the X-ray before turning to face the invasion to autopsy. "I believe you mean don't _push_ it, my dear," he corrected gently, and the woman turned gestured wildly in his general direction in the barest form of acknowledgement.

"Yes, do not _push_ it," she snarled at her partner, who just rolled his eyes.

Ducky glanced amusedly at Jimmy, who looked like the sight of the two agents fighting this viciously, even with words, was enough to keep him with zipped lips until they left. He returned to his table, then frowned, glancing around in bemusement. "Anthony, Ziva, not that I do not appreciate the visit, but why have you graced autopsy with your presence this fine morning? I do not have any bodies for Gibbs- or, do I?"

The two agents moved to stand, not next to his opened up body, but over an empty table. They stood, not side by side, but each at one end of the table, and he frowned again, looking between the two hard, unyielding stares- neither one looking about to speak any time soon.

"Ah..." He cleared his throat. "Any sort of an answer would be welcome."

Before either one of them could even attempt to reply, there was the ding of the elevator again, this time to bring Abby. The forensic scientist jogged into the room, stopping short when she saw who was there. "Where is Gibbs? I've only got a ten minute window before Major Maspec finishes! And why the sudden meeting in autopsy? We better not be doing any of that shadow black ops stuff again; I don't like keeping secrets like that-"

"Abigail, _what_ secret meeting?"

Abby stopped again, turning to look at him quizzically. "Didn't you see his message?"

"I'm just surprised the Bossman managed to send a mass text in the first place," Tony muttered, leaving Ducky only more confused than before.

"I believe there has been a breakdown in communication. I have received no message from Jethro. See?" Ducky pulled out his phone and showed it to everyone. "No message. ...Surely, Jethro did not have the audacity to convene a meeting in autopsy without inviting me."

His assistant took his phone from his hand before Abby could, clicking through a few screens, then stared at him over his glasses. "Dr. Mallard, that was your sent messages screen."

"My what?"

Jimmy waved the phone a little. "You have a new message from Agent Gibbs right here." He turned the phone around to show him, and there it was- _Autopsy. 30 minutes._

"Oh. So I do!"

"Who still has a sent messages screen?"

"Dr. Mallard," Jimmy replied to Abby, pushing at his glasses with a shrug. "On his _flip phone._ Which, I'm kind've wanting myself right now; it manages to have better battery than mine, which is currently dead."

Grimacing, Ducky put his phone back in his pocket, mentally taking a step back from the conversation. Another secret meeting in his autopsy did not sound like something he would enjoy. He glanced at his watch unhappily; based off the time stamp on the message, Jethro should've been arriving-

 _Ding!_

 _-right now,_ he thought, smiling. Punctual, if not polite.

Gibbs moved out of the elevator straight into autopsy, the look on his face somehow even more no-nonsense than usual; the moment he was inside he smacked the button for an infectious autopsy, then the lights. The doors sealed shut and locked, the lights shut off, and the man moved forward on a warpath to stand at the table Tony and Ziva had already claimed, arms folded, eyes down in an unwavering, icy stare.

No one spoke.

Completely dark save for the flashing, red warning at the doors, entrance locked, and Jethro, having mastered the art of escalating from a constant aura of seriousness to managing to bring an oppressive air of _something is wrong_ with him just by walking into a room.

Ducky sighed inwardly.

It did indeed seem that the secretive missions of NCIS had returned once again- even while he dearly wished that such manner of operations had died with the previous administration.

"Tony, Ziva," Gibbs said abruptly, voice rough but, strangely preoccupied, "what'd you two find out from the surveillance?"

The two agents, previous hostility put on hold, apparently, by the complete unexpectedness on this new venture, glanced at each other in confusion. "Uh, Boss? Why the cloak and dagger?"

Tony barely held out for three seconds under the flat, piercing stare.

"Right, not important now." Tony sighed, scratching at his unruly hair. "Surveillance from the base showed that there was no driver."

Gibbs blinked, and the tired cast to his face suddenly vanished in place of a very rare surprise. He looked at Tony, eyes wide. "What?"

Ziva jumped in. "He is right, Gibbs. We are waiting for the footage to be cleaned up, but no one exited the vehicle upon it hitting the wall of the base until the marines arrived, six minutes after impact; then, there was someone watching it at all times. No one could have left."

"Looks like our John Doe is the drunk driver," Tony finished with a shrug. "Doesn't explain the blood in the trunk, or how he got out of the front seat before the paramedics got there."

Ducky wasn't sure what they were talking about, but it didn't seem like it warranted such subterfuge. It sounded like a normal case. Except, Jethro was definitely not taking the news as such. His friend's eyes were back down on the table, narrowed in concentration; he appeared to be in deep thought, about what, Ducky had no idea, and it didn't look like he was about to start explaining. After a few awkward moments passed in silence, he cleared his throat. "Your taciturnity is characteristic, Jethro, but, since _you_ called this little meeting..."

Gibbs didn't even respond.

At least, not to him.

"He knew we were on call this weekend," he muttered under his breath, to himself. "Unbelievable... he drove _himself_ into the Navy base. He knew we'd be called in..."

"Uh, Boss?"

"Gibbs, you're not making any sense!"

"Jethro, who is this _he_ that you speak of?"

Cautiously, Gibbs raised his famous stare from the table to look around at them all. It wasn't the intimidating variant he used on suspects or Tony, but instead just a long, serious look that betrayed nothing but the gravity of the situation. He seemed to be stuck on how much to tell them, and that, in and of itself, was worrisome. Above their pay grade was typical for the major case response team to run into; subterfuge like this behind locked doors and hidden from even the director's knowledge was not.

"Early this morning," Gibbs began at last, and only when he had impressed on them all how serious this was with nothing more than a look, "someone drove themselves straight into a Navy base. We were called in. Officially, the driver is comatose at Bethesda, and unidentified."

"Comatose? The crash did not look that serious," Ziva said, frowning.

Tony nodded along with her. "Guessing there's an unofficially?"

"...Unofficially: the driver is not comatose; he's going to be fine. ... _Unofficially-_ it's McGee."

A stunned silence fell.

McGee was _alive?_

Not just alive- but after three months of absolutely nothing, just an endless trail of dead ends and cold leads, to suddenly just appear again, finally _safe,_ and back firmly within reach where Gibbs would sooner shoot himself than let someone get to him again?

It easily seemed to be much too good to be true, and as Gibbs always said, if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was- but Ducky was having trouble caring.

McGee was _alive._

He beamed.

The others, meanwhile, were struggling to process it with their own methods. Abby stumbled back from the table, hands over her mouth. Ziva just stared blankly at Gibbs, mouth open but the woman too shocked to show any emotion but a blank surprise; it was Tony who overcame the revelation first, leaning forward with a light in his eyes Ducky had not seen for a long time. " _Our_ McGee?! _Probie!_ McMissing is McBack?! Gibbs! _Yes!"_ He punched the air a couple times, brimming over with excitement and beaming bright enough to light up the entire room.

His burst broke the spell and Abby jumped forward, eyes already brimming over with tears. The first thing she did was throw herself at Gibbs in one of her most ferocious hugs yet and Ducky couldn't but laugh aloud, watching as his friend staggered to catch the woman who was already nearly sobbing, phrases of _I knew you'd find him!_ and _thank you, Gibbs_ scattered amongst ragged, pained gasps mixed with tears.

Gibbs didn't even crack a smile- and that was the first sign to Ducky that something was wrong.

Abruptly Abby pulled back, wiping her face stained with makeup and tears. "What are we doing here?! We need to go see him!" She turned, already starting to run for the door- Gibbs caught her by the wrist, holding steady even when she tried to jerk away.

"Abby," he was all he said. A low call infused with warning, and with such a lack of any kind of positive emotion that, to Ducky, it was downright disturbing.

"Gibbs!" Abby complained, the subtleties of the situation flying straight over her head in her hyperemotional state. "I- I've got to go see him! _Now!"_

Gibbs just pulled her back towards the table, as gently as he could manage with her struggling all the way, then turned back to face them all. "I know you're all eager to leave, but there are some details you _all_ have to hear before you leave this room! Details that _cannot_ leave this room with you, you understand?"

The growl was met with a series of shocked, still joyful nods, and one more feeble tug from Abby. Steel blue eyes moved around the table, focusing in on each one of them until even Tony's energy was calmed, and it was only then that he went on.

"For the past several weeks, McGee was been on the run from a fed- someone planted undercover but that got flipped against us. Unknown agency. We've got very little to go on, but if he finds out McGee's back, he becomes an instant target. We have _got_ to keep this quiet- no one outside of this room knows. Everyone clear?"

There was a small cough from behind Ducky, and he glanced back to see his assistant looking more nervous than ever. "U-um, Agent Gibbs," he started, pushing at his glasses anxiously.

"Not now, Palmer. I said, _everyone, clear?"_

It was Tony's turn to step in, now frowning deeply. "Hang on, what am I missing? Why can't we just put him in protective custody?"

"Negative. If the bad egg's at NCIS, it would be far too easy to find out his location. Until we find this bastard, the man from today is a comatose John Doe, and McGee is still in the wind. He's gonna be in the hospital for at least a week- by the time he's released, we _will_ have found this guy. Got it?"

The group all looked between each other and nodded together, the seething consensus only too clear. Ducky could already imagine the carnage the agents were planning on creating for the man who'd had McGee on the run; Tony would likely go old fashioned and just beat him, likely to death, Ziva'd go with any number of her unconventional methods, likely picking one of the most drawn out and painful, Abby, of course, could kill him and leave no forensic evidence- and Gibbs... Ducky shuddered to think of how Gibbs would handle him.

He concentrated on Gibbs, then, keying in on a piece of his explanation that hadn't added up. "Why is he in the hospital? I thought Ziva said the crash wasn't serious?"

Gibbs blinked, then shook his head slightly. He rubbed a hand tiredly over his face, seeming unfocused- and that lack of focus was troubling indeed. "No- an untreated bullet wound led to an infection-"

"This monster _shot Timmy?!"_

"I will kill him," Ziva promised darkly, but while the threats of murder continued, Ducky stayed silent, his mind racing.

"Well, if this infection is serious enough to have him hospitalized for a week," he mused aloud, confused, interrupting Abby's in depth description of just how she was going to take care of the man who had shot her Timothy, "then I doubt he would've been lucid enough to tell you all of this." He listed off the probable symptoms, ticking off his fingers as he went. "High fever, lethargic, very low blood pressure... if he is being properly medicated, he will likely be unconscious right now."

Gibbs shifted uneasily and folded his arms, putting off the feel of an unapproachable wall. Ducky had been expecting some sore of reasonable explanation to follow- but with his friend looking like _that,_ he suddenly felt uneasy himself. Leroy Jethro Gibbs did not look like that, not without very, _very_ good reason.

"McGee didn't tell me this now, Duck." He paused, looking around the table again, expression unreadable. "...He told me this four weeks ago."

Another stunned silence fell.

This time, however, it was utterly drained of any positive influence whatsoever.

Four weeks. McGee had been missing for at least twelve.

Ducky swiftly turned himself outwards before he could grasp the implications of that, the looming sense of betrayal, and instead looked around the small, tightly knit group with narrowed eyes. Shock was mirrored everywhere he turned, shock that morphed into hurt at varying rates- and Gibbs just stood there unreadable as ever, both silent and patient.

Waiting for the storm to come.

"You... you knew?" Ziva stammered at last. "You knew McGee was alive?"

Gibbs gave one, short nod- eyes hard as ice. "He made contact with me four weeks ago, via email," he said, voice flat. "He explained the situation then; that he had escaped from the people holding him but that there was a fed somewhere looking for him, and he insisted it was too dangerous for him to come in without more information. He-"

Tony pushed himself away from the table and turned away in a violent twist, radiating nothing short of fury. He stormed towards the exit without a word and slammed the button for infectious autopsy again, unlocking the door, then hit the elevator button. He waited only a few seconds to pull away and head for the stairs, yanking open the door so hard it hit the wall with a bang.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Ziva shifted, then cleared her throat. It was clear she was none too happy right now, either, but she just held up a hand, emotions retained, and said, "I will go get him." She glanced at Gibbs, eyes narrowed, then quickly turned her back, giving off the same feeling of hurt and anger as Tony had all the while, and left.

With her gone, Abby was left to stand stock still, hands again clapped over her mouth- and eyes, once more overflowing with tears.

"G- Gibbs..."

At long last the cold mask slipped and Gibbs just looked tired- very, very tired- and he turned towards the her, already reaching out a hand. "Abby-"

She slapped him across the face.

The sound reverberated in a cold, lonely echo throughout the room, and Abby just stood there, staring at him- undeniably, unbearably, hurt. Her hand shook, and she dropped it, the tears still running.

"How could you, Gibbs?"

The broken whisper was met by nothing more than a helpless stare. And when Gibbs was unable to muster up anything more than that, Abby turned away and left herself. The door shut with an air of finality, leaving Gibbs standing alone in the darkness, head still whipped to the side from the force of Abby's slap.

Ducky found it rather difficult to find any sympathy.

He cleared his throat when his friend made no move to leave himself and simply stood there, motionless. "Jethro," he prodded coldly, watching him from a few feet back. "...You should've-"

"If you don't think I ordered him to come in, if you don't think I did everything I could to figure out where the hell he was hiding, Duck-!" His eyes flashed in sudden, extreme emotion and he pounded a fist against one of the tables in a metallic smash. "God _damn it, McGee!"_

Gibbs just stood there for a moment, breathing hard and glaring at the table like it had wrought him some great personal wrong; then, with another violent exhale, he turned to leave himself, leaving the two medical examiners behind.

* * *

"Spent months with the secret assignment for director, and how'd that end? Blown up car, brokenhearted Jeanne, and almost no more Tony DiNozzo." Tony stomped the ground for emphasis, seething. "Director goes off the reservation, _clearly_ something is wrong but she orders us to stay quiet about it, and how'd that end up? Jenny killed in a complete massacre and Gibbs spending weeks looking like he wants to kill someone." He exited the building into the burning sun and cut a line straight for his car, fists clenched around his key so tight the sharp edge drew blood. "But yeah! It makes total sense, let's just go black ops again, keep more secrets, leave agents alone in the field to get mowed down- because it worked out _so damn well_ last time!"

The small collection of agents staring at him from the sidewalk, wide-eyed, only managed to incense him more. "Go back to your coffee, rookies," he snapped, and turned away to glare at his car.

Shit like this worked out real great for Bond. Turned out, in real life, it was more complicated than that, and ended as nothing better than a complete nightmare.

"Tony!"

Oh, hell no. He knew that accent. He _knew_ that voice. And hell no, he was not getting into this right now.

" _Tony!"_

Hell. No.

When she called out to him again, Tony groaned aloud, leaning against his hot car with his fists, all his irritation channeling into one rapidly tapping foot. He was just gonna stand there, and pretend not to hear her, and she would go away. And if she didn't, he was calmly going to tell her of his plans, then just leave, because he was _really not_ getting into this right now.

The hurried footsteps that approached from behind made him groan again. Great. Plan B. Because his Plan Bs always worked so well.

"Tony."

"Really not in the mood now, Ziva."

He heard her huff. "Where are you going?" she asked, completely sidestepping his blatant attempt to get out of any and all conversations, and he shook his head, staring at the glare of the sun on his car.

"I don't know." He paused, shuddering at the thought of going back into NCIS right now. His aversion to that place was so strong right now he'd sooner trade in his beloved mustang than go back in there. "Somewhere. Anywhere but here."

"Tony..." Ziva sighed, clearly trying to think of the right thing to say- too bad for her, but Tony didn't think there was anything right thing in this situation, not unless she went for the cliche _it's all been a dream._ But he didn't think he was so messed up to dream something like this.

"Look, I am as unhappy with Gibbs as you. But you are not thinking clearly-"

"Not thinking clearly?!" he spun back around at last to stand face to face with Ziva, and something about seeing her standing there so composed when he felt one more blow away from falling apart just broke the wall, and all the pent up emotions that he'd meant to keep just that, pent up, came pouring out. "Well, Ms. Clear Headed, tell me what I should be _thinking_ right now, since you seem to know just _everything."_

She glared at him, and he took pleasure in the crack in her mask he'd made, a bit of the anger he knew was real shining through. "No, Tony, I do not know everything, but I do know _you!"_ She jabbed him sharply in his chest. "In times of stress, you get angry, you take it out on others, and you do _not. think. clearly."_

"And you're thinking straight now? Because if I recall, last night you were plenty eager to assert that he was dead, and Abby and I were just in denial. Now we find out he's alive, and you're still somehow the smart one, is that it?!"

"You are doing it again!" she cried, exasperated. "You are angry at Gibbs, and you are taking it out on me."

"You're damn right I'm angry at Gibbs!" He pointed towards NCIS with one broad and wild wave of his hand. "He hid this from us! You know, Ziva, I got more than my fill of secret operations and lies during the previous administration. I was hoping things would be different; evidently, that was a bad idea, because this time it wasn't the director but _Gibbs._... _Gibbs, about McGee._ That makes it worse. _Way_ worse."

"Yes. Yes, it does." Ziva ran a shaking hand through her wild hair, and in the motion he saw just a hint of lack of control. It somehow made him feel better, if only barely, to know he wasn't the only one losing it here, and he forced himself to let out a tense breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"It makes it worse, Tony," she said, "but you can not just go off to the hospital and leave. I know you want to see McGee, I want to see him, too, but you heard Ducky. He will not be coherent for days, and we are needed here! Sitting with McGee will not find the man who shot him."

Tony sighed, dropping back against his car to bow his head, staring at the asphalt. She was right. He hated that she was right. He hated that it did nothing for his complete aversion to even seeing Gibbs' face was right now- he wanted to punch the bastard- or his draw towards the hospital. Damn it, he wanted to go see McGee with his own two eyes, he wanted to hear him breathing, he wanted to be there when he woke up and stand there at the door to take care of fed that was after him.

...Then headslap McGee into next week.

Because, the blame wasn't all Gibbs', was it? McGee had contacted Gibbs when he'd escapec. That meant he'd _chosen_ not to contact anyone else.

He bit his lip, trying not to feel the hurt he knew was simmering safely under anger right now. Of course Probie would contact Gibbs first. They all would. But he damn well should've been McGee's second person to contact- and not four weeks after the fact!

None of this was making sense- and it seemed like more information was just going to make it worse, not better.

"How are you not angry right now?" he asked at length, despondent, and made no move to push himself off his car. He looked over Ziva's shoulder at NCIS and sighed. "After what Gibbs did- and McGee, by not telling us anything!"

"I am not angry because I am not you, Tony," she replied succinctly. Then she paused, features softening at last. "...And, because this is not something the director ordered. I believe in Gibbs. I do not know why he didn't tell us about McGee- I do not know why McGee did not contact us- but I believe they would not have kept this secret unless it was absolutely necessary, Tony. Gibbs has not yet explained himself. We need to give him that chance."

"Yeah, well I'm not too keen on that right now, Ziva."

There was a long silence through which he just squinted through the sun at NCIS, and Ziva said nothing, head down. He saw Abby slip out the door and make for her car and found himself totally unsurprised, and kept his mouth shut. If he was angry right now, Abby was bound to be completely irrational. If Ziva tried to stop her, it would only end in a catfight.

It would be a tough wager for Abby, because he knew she would be angry and confused over McGee too, right now. And she had a startling talent for letting emotions rule for her; he still remembered how badly she'd freaked out when her precious probie been mauled by a wild dog. Freaked out for exactly ten seconds, anyway, until she realized he'd dared to shoot his attacker; then she'd practically shunned him.

What McGee and Gibbs had done was way worse than shooting a dog.

What McGee had gone through, though, whatever that was- was also guaranteed to be way worse than playing chew toy.

He sighed again. He didn't know about Abby, but after three months, the relief that his probie was all right was just going to win out over everything else.

For now.

"Tony."

Ziva had tilted her head back, just slightly, so she could look him in the eye; now she stood waiting for him to meet her halfway. One more look at NCIS, and he nodded, mentally steeling himself. He could do this.

He looked down at Ziva. There was a warm glimmer in dark brown that he was glad to be one of the privileged few to see, and when the stab of longing came, because of course it would, he braced himself for it. Ziva was off limits now; she'd made it clear what she wanted, or rather, didn't want to risk. But she was close now, invading his personal space in the way only Ziva could without truly making it sexual, and it took an effort not to back away.

"Do you think Gibbs would have hid this if it was not necessary?"

If she was going to ask questions like that, then never mind, hee was getting out of here; he wanted to actually think, which he wouldn't do with her face an inch away from his. He took her by the shoulders and moved her aside so he could breathe; she raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, and he chuckled in bitter amusement. Gibbs had nearly skewered the director when he'd found out about his secret assignment with La Grenouille, and practically bitten McGee's head off when he'd learned how the then green agent had hid facts about his sister during a murder investigation. There was no lying on this team; that was number one of the unspoken rules. And when Gibbs made rules, they weren't just for his agents; he followed them, too.

"...No," he grunted, through extreme reluctance. Whatever reason Gibbs had had for hiding this, it had to be good.

That didn't make it right.

Ziva nodded back. "Then, come back inside, and let him explain. ...Besides, the sooner we get to work on McGee's case, the sooner I can kill the man who shot him."

She wasn't joking, but Tony laughed all the same and pushed himself off his car. "Yeah, one problem with that, Ziva." He started to lead the way back to NCIS, shoving his keys back in his pocket. "Gibbs is going to kill him first."

 **May 2nd, 2008**

"I told you, corner of... but I can't wait that long, I... please, can you get out here a little sooner? I'm a federal agent, I-" McGee stopped, pulled his phone back, then sighed despondently. "Great. You hung up. That's just great. Very polite."

He leaned back against his car, looking warily around the street. Dead engine, in the middle of one of the worst neighborhoods of DC, and triple A stalling for three more hours, at best. Tonight was shaping up to be just fantastic.

He'd briefly considered calling one of the team to help, but dismissed the notion just as quick. Tony would've shown up, but then ragged him for it endlessly. By the end of the week the rumor of the office would be he'd gotten his panties in a twist and had to call the great Tony DiNozzo to his recuse. He did not need or want that. Abby was also a no, but for different reasons; no way was he calling her out in the middle of the night to a neighborhood this dangerous. There was a rape reported here every week; he shuddered at the thought and shook his head again. _No._ No Abby.

Had Ziva been in town, he would have called her; while he knew Abby could take care of herself, the idea of her being assaulted by any of the thugs that had made this street their turf sent a chill down his spine. The idea of those same thugs going at Ziva was laughable. But, she was in Tel Aviv visiting family, set to fly back in- just his luck- the next morning. So, no Ziva for him.

Calling Gibbs...

For car trouble...

In the middle of the night...

"God, _no,"_ he muttered under his breath, and shivered. He could picture it now- that wordless, cold stare all the way home, the unbearable silence as he tried to make small talk and Gibbs did not respond in the slightest- not to mention it'd smash whatever parts of his reputation he'd managed to build up. Tony was Tony; held the team together when Gibbs had hightailed it to Mexico, worked as the director's classified undercover spy; his reputation was solid. Ziva was Ziva. God only knew what she'd done with Mossad.

And, he was still killer on the computer and in the lab- and, not so stellar in the field.

He was an NCIS agent, for god's sakes; he'd be fine. It was just a bad neighborhood for a few hours. He'd done worse his first year in DC- and he'd sooner sit out here all night then call Gibbs for this.

As if on cue, a gunshot cracked out over the night, and he groaned again.

"Perfect."

There wasn't much use in reporting gunshots out here; the response time would be dismal. By the time any cops made their way out here, not only would the shooter be long gone, but, hopefully, would he. He checked his watch again and grimaced; this night was a complete and utter disaster.

McGee jumped when there was another shot, this one closer than the last. The sound was different than before... like a much bigger caliber.

One gun meant the beginning and end of a fight. It didn't have to mean the escalation of violence in turf where everyone was armed; it could mean anything from an accident to a warning shot.

Two guns meant two shooters.

Two guns meant a _problem._

"Oh, no..." He hesitantly touched his weapon, looking anxiously around the street, searching for anything abnormal.

Two more shots, and he pushed himself away from his car, gun in hand, moving down the street at a run. He zeroed in on an alley at the sound of a panicked shout and took off at a run, hugging the wall. At least two shooters, one still alive and conscious; he analyzed his options, mind racing. Calling in a request for backup would take half an hour at least, by then anyone injured would have long bled out, and any shooters well enough to run would be gone.

"This is insane," he muttered under his breath, but no matter how true that was, it did nothing to drive him away from the alley.

He drew closer and the shouting morphed into coherent words- first a flurry of Spanish, then a frantic, "What the hell, man, _what the hell?!_ We were supposed to wait- _why'd you kill them?!"_

" _I didn't mean to!"_ This voice was younger and even more panicked than the first one. "I- I just- _I don't know!_ Oh my god, are they dead?! Carlos, are they dead?! _"_

He frowned. Hardly hardened killers. But two armed targets, already nervous, already out of control... swallowing the rising anxiety, McGee stood back from the wall, gun held at the ready, then pushed himself into the fray with nothing more than a deep breath to prepare himself.

"NCIS, drop your weapons!"

There was no slow motion bullet-travels-while-he-flashbacks-on-whole-life moment. There was no second for him to watch the bullet move, there was no time for him to think or prepare or even breath.

One of the men had jumped a mile at his order, whirling in a burst of terror and the moment McGee saw the gun pointed his way, he fired.

So did the other man.

Screeching tires screamed out behind him and McGee jumped back, moving so his back was to the wall and swiveling in alarm between the two targets. The shooter had dropped while his friend stayed put, gun still out; McGee turned from him to the black van that skidded to a stop at the head of the alley, taking aim at the door. "Stop! _NCIS!_ All of you, _freeze!"_

The driver's door opened and another man stepped out, latino, like the others, gun stuck in his waistband. _"Stop!"_ McGee screamed desperately. The more people that showed up the less his chances got of salvaging this; he needed to control this situation _now._

Far from taking his desperation as an order, the driver stared at him wild disbelief, then whirled on the others. "What the hell is this?! I said _wait!_ Is this guy a cop?!"

There was another burst of Spanish, increasingly anxious this time, and McGee moved between the two targets, starting to really panic now. "Both of you, put your weapons down now, or I will shoot!"

Neither one paid him any attention, and, shaking, McGee turned to take aim at the driver- and that was when he felt something wet running down his leg.

His blood ran cold.

Now, it felt like it was in slow motion- the realization, the horrified down tilt of his head to stare- the sudden unbearable flare of sheer agony...

His white shirt had blossomed red from the blood that bubbled up underneath. The stuff had dribbled out from the untucked hem to drip down his right leg, his abdomen soaked scarlet, the color such a bright, poisonous red- and god, there was just _so much of it..._ his head spun, and what came with it was nothing short of anguish.

 _Oh my god, I've been shot._

 _Oh my god, I'VE BEEN SHOT._

His gun dropped from numb fingers seconds before his strength fled, and his legs turned to jelly. He collapsed and when his head hit the ground, the blackness came. The last thing he felt was a rough, calloused hand clasping around his wrists and dragging him over the ground before the pain burst into an all encompassing fire, and then, there was nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for reviewing!

I do work in an emergency room, and I am a pre-med student. Pre-med, so as in not in medical school yet. So, I know lots about ER procedures, and I know just as much about medicine as the average House M.D. audience. All medical information is based solely off research and could very easily be wrong.

Hope you enjoy :)

 **August 18th, 2008**

Logically, it made sense why Gibbs had told the Marine guarding Tim's door to not let anyone through except for himself and hospital staff. He couldn't give blanket access to NCIS personnel; what if the man after Tim was an NCIS agent? Logically, it made sense why Gibbs hadn't told them all that Tim was alive weeks ago; again, if the possibly treasonous hypothetical NCIS agent heard then it would just be a direct line straight to Tim. It couldn't have been risked.

So, logically, Abby understood why she'd been forced to sit outside Tim's room, armed guard at the door still barring her access.

It didn't stop her emotions from conflicting in such an utter mess that all there was left for her to feel was a sheer mass of hurt, or from her wanting to push the guard out of the way and take up residence in the room and not leave until Tim could go with her. Why couldn't he just understand?! McGee was _her Tim!_ This wasn't about secret operations or undercover work or anything _like_ that; all this was to her was her best friend was hurt and she _needed_ to be with him.

She hadn't even debated calling Gibbs, though. He could order the Marine to let her in; she knew that. But she wasn't about to talk to him. Not even for this. She'd just have to be okay with sitting outside until they caught the monster who'd shot him, because she wasn't going to talk to Gibbs until then. Maybe not even after.

Abby pulled her knees up to the chair and buried her head in them, wrapping her arms around herself. She couldn't put anything that she was feeling into words and wasn't sure she wanted to, and really wanted to quit trying. All that should matter right then was Tim was alive and safe. _That_ was what mattered- not how angry she was at Gibbs, not how much she _hated_ the bastard responsible for all of this. Tim was safe. That was what was important.

...Okay, that, and the fact that he was really going to regret not emailing her when he woke up. He'd emailed Gibbs- he could've emailed her! But, being angry at him, too, was just too much. She couldn't be angry at Gibbs _and_ Tim at once, and Gibbs was a safe target right now. He was still invincible, untouchable Gibbs; she could be angry at him right now and know he'd wait through it and still be there when she could face him again.

He wasn't the one who was hurt and in the hospital right now.

Abby sat up straighter miserably and turned, peering into the room. The thick glass distorted what she could see; she'd tried before desperately to see Tim's face but all it really looked to her was a fleshly blob. She wiped at her eyes with a shaking hand and stared harder, biting her lip at the bandaged mess that was his shoulder. How had this even happened? When? He'd been shot and left all alone out there...

Gibbs would've had to of have a really good reason for keeping him out in the field like that.

There was the sound of conversation from behind her, and, wiping her eyes again, Abby turned around to see a cluster of sad and tired looking people heading towards the elevator. She looked towards her watch with a start; visiting hours were over? It felt like she'd only just got here. Not that visiting hours applied to her, sitting out in the hall like this.

But it was a shock to realize just how late it had gotten- and how many hours she had spent here, waiting in vain for Tim to wake up.

It was now painfully obvious that sitting here wasn't going to bring any sort of good out of this situation. It was just making her feel worse.

That- and, she had evidence to process.

With a heavy heart, Abby rose to her feet and smoothed out her shirt. What little she could do right now was figure out where Tim had gotten the car from, and how he'd managed to drive it into the base without actually being in the driver's seat. The second would be of little help to anyone; the first might just be able to give them a lead that could take them back to what he'd managed to get himself involved in- and from there, to the fed chasing him.

It wasn't much. But, it was enough.

"Good night, Tim," she whispered, leaning forward to kiss the glass. Her knees wobbled and she shook, hands clenching on her abandoned chair for support. "I'll come back tomorrow, okay? And just... just sleep for now. Please? Let us catch the bad guy this time, and don't you dare wake up until I come back."

If he heard her, he gave no sign. But it helped her, just a little, to say it, and with one more kiss, she pushed herself away, bracing herself to return to work.

 **August 19th, 2008**

When Gibbs called Abby's name for the third time, and she still didn't respond, he knew it was time to call it quits.

With a defeated sigh, he waved Tony forward. The surly look he got in response told him he'd have to talk to more than just Abby later, but his agent at least cooperated, walking forward to take lead. "What do you got, Abs?"

The forensic scientist moved back from the car, back still to them, arms folded. She stood still for a moment, evidently caught in an internal debate, then turned to whisper into Tony's ear. Gibbs groaned in exasperation, rubbing a hand over his eyes and waiting for this to play out.

His agent looked exceedingly uncomfortable when he looked back in this direction, seeming reluctant to take part in the indirect snubbing. "Abby says she figured out how McGee rigged the car. He used an, um..."

He trailed off uncertainly, seeming confused, and Abby's frustrated groan was audible this time as she leaned back to reexplain it into his ear again. He nodded slowly, relaying the information as she talked. "He'd fixed some of the wiring so the car was stuck accelerating and the tires were locked facing forward. Probably drove himself to the base, then rewired the car and got into the trunk before it crashed- got himself as far away from the impact as possible." He paused for a moment, still listening, then grimaced. "Abby says it's pretty simple, Boss, if you know what you're doing. Which, well, McGee would. Even as sick as he was, he could've managed it."

Gibbs nodded to himself, thinking it over. "He probably realized there was an infection and he couldn't treat it. Needed medical attention ASAP, but couldn't risk just going to a hospital... he knew driving into a Navy base would get him a doctor as well as bringing us into it." It made perfect sense, now that he really thought about it. McGee hadn't wanted to risk getting hurt in the car crash so he'd rigged the car and then gotten away from the impact zone. It even answered where the blood stains had come from in the trunk.

It also explained the missing driver. Which sucked, because that had been a big possible lead that now had gone up in smoke.

Sighing again, he glanced over the evidence garage with a feeling of hopelessness. They were quickly running out of options here. "Where'd the car come from?" he asked in a last ditch effort.

Abby didn't respond in the slightest.

After another awkward moment, Tony again moved the situation along, turning to repeat his question to Abby. It was only then that she answered, again, by whispering it into his ear. "Reported stolen the morning of the accident two blocks away from the base," Tony relayed, and Gibbs cursed.

Nothing, then.

 **May 3rd, 2008**

"What've you got for me?"

Tony went first without waiting for a signal, standing to report in an instant. "Went through his calendar, Boss; turns out McGee was McStud yesterday. He had a date last night, other side of town. I spoke with the girlfriend, she said he got there at eight and left at eleven- and _wow_ is she out of his league. Hair down to here, bottle blonde, looked the type to have been a cheerleader in high school- and her figure, _oh,_ her figure- damn, Probie! Seriously, he had to have copied some of the classic DiNozzo charm from me; only way he could land a girl like that."

"Perhaps," Ziva cut in teasingly, "she has standards that rise above your cheesy pickup lines- oh, I mean, your _charm."_

Gibbs just stared at them, completely unamused. It took Tony a couple of seconds to realize the silence that had fallen was not one of admiration for his so-called charm; with a cough he tugged on his tie and went on with only an eye roll in Ziva's direction, cocky grin fading. "She's been at work all day today; I don't think she's involved. If there's even something to be involved in."

Gibbs grimaced, tapping his fingers against his desk still in a silent display of anxiety. The fact that Tony was still making jokes showed that he wasn't too worried himself, and, admittedly, there wasn't much of a reason to be.

But his gust had been telling him ever since the clock reached noon, and McGee still wasn't there, that something was off.

With Tony done, Ziva gave what she'd found out as well. "No reports matching his description, or his car's, in the last 24 hours. His cell phone his been turned off, but last signal was on Atlantic Avenue, at midnight. It was on his way home from his date- the battery probably died, Gibbs." She shrugged unconcernedly. "I do not think we have anything to worry about- no sign of forced entry or a struggle at his apartment- Gibbs, it is likely he had a doctor's appointment this morning, or something similar, and he just forgot to tell us."

"Now, now, Ziva." Tony sent her a chastising look and shook his head in mock amusement. "McGee marks his little raids on World of Warcraft down on his calendar. He's anal about even the smallest of things- and, let's be honest, here, an appointment with real life people instead of virtual wizards and pixel princesses is an improvement for his social life. It'd be on his calendar."

Ziva raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching with mischievousness. "You seem to know a lot about his online raids, Tony... I wonder." She rose from her desk, moving forward in a move colored with pure sass. "Is that from personal experience, Tony?"

Gibbs rubbed his temples on the heel of his agent's nervous laugh, tuning out his attempts to save face. Tony was right. If this was anybody but McGee, a few hours late for work wouldn't be cause for the beginnings of an investigation.

But this wasn't anybody but McGee.

His phone rang, and, shaking his head to try and clear it, he picked it up with a surly, "Agent Gibbs."

" _Agent Gibbs, this is Officer McKinley with Metro PD. You're Agent McGee's supervisor at NCIS?"_

This was not going to end well.

Gibbs waved for Tony and Ziva to be quiet and clutched the phone closer to his ear, sitting up straight in his chair. "Yes, sir."

" _We've found your agent's car, cell phone, and weapon abandoned in what looks like a gang shootout. Three bodies, none of them matching his description, but blood stains look like someone injured was taken from the scene. Your man's nowhere in sight."_ There was an uneasy pause, during which Gibbs' gut dropped and his mouth went dry. _"Look, Agent Gibbs, I've got five open cases right now. If you want to take this one, then-"_

"Be there in an hour."

* * *

His chest was on fire.

Literally, he'd be willing to bet. With his eyes shut, there was nothing to go on but the agonizing heat centered in his chest and the roiling pain scratching at his insides from his abdomen. The agony shattered his car crash as previous holder for worst pain he'd ever felt in his life and surpassed it by leaps and bounds, leaving him paralyzed through anguish and barely able to even breathe. Every motion achieved the impossible task of making it hurt even worse and that included each fought for shallow breath, and his head rolled, dizziness assaulting him and leaving his head spinning.

For the life of him, which was seeming very precarious at the moment, Tim couldn't remember how he'd got here. He couldn't remember where here was. Although by the feel of things, if here wasn't a hospital, then he didn't have that long to get to one.

 _And if I'm in a hospital, knock me out, knock me out, knock me out, why am I even awake why can't they just knock me out..._

 _Morphine morphine morphine morphine morphine_

He didn't he'd even vocalized the begged need in a scratchy, perpetual whimper until he had to break off for air.

"Shush, papito."

A cold hand came against his hair, fingers moving gently. He flinched away, nerves instantly alight like he'd just been given an electric shock. Someone else was here?! With him at his weakest, and unable to protect himself- there was only one person he'd feel safe with being here right now, but no matter how much he wished it, that was _not_ Gibbs.

Opening his eyes was a bit beyond him, though, and already consciousness was beginning to spiral away, and with it came at least a decreased awareness of the pain- he could not find it in him to resist.

 **May 4th, 2008**

Gibbs was cautious even stepping into Abby's lab. When word of McGee's case had reached her, she'd been hysterical, but it'd only taken one second of encouragement from DiNozzo before she'd set to work like a fiend. Rumor was she hadn't gone home last night.

He would've stopped her from working for twelve hours straight, but, they needed that evidence and they needed it now.

Bracing himself for the onslaught that he knew was on its way, Gibbs finished off the last of his coffee and headed into the war zone.

"What do you got, Abs?"

She whirled from her computers, lab coat swirling and one pigtail remaining moving around her neck in a limp flop. "Gibbs!" she cried, wild-eyed, and burst towards him, not even reaching for the Caf-Pow in his left hand. "Gibbs, have you found him yet?!"

He could pinpoint the exact moment her hopes fell. Anxious, open-mouthed desperation falling into sheer sadness, green eyes turning wet with despair... he waited for a moment, letting her process what she had surely already known, then gently took her by the shoulder and leading her back to her work.

"We're looking for him, Abs, but I need that evidence."

She took a slow, shuddering breath, lowered her head- then set to work so fast he could barely keep up.

"Three bodies, two rival gangs. Two from one, one from the other. Four shooters, including the three dead guys... last one is McGee." She clicked on her keyboard a few times so hard the clack was audible over the music. "Ballistics identifies one of the gang members being the one to kill the other two, then McGee shot him. Not any cameras in the area so we can't see what happened, but I've worked up a simulation. Still waiting on blood results to confirm, but you want to see?"

"Go."

He watched as she sent the file up to the plasma and the situation unfolded in awkward stick figures identified through hovering text labels. He frowned at McGee's label as NCIS, but didn't comment, allowing Abby to tell the story.

"Mystery Man is parked here, thirty feet away from the alley. Engine to car was dead, so he was probably waiting for car help; this is when the most of the shootout in the alley happened. Bad Guy One, Two go down." There was a click and the two stick figures proceeded to drop with four quick gunshots. "I think this is when Mystery Man moves to the crime scene. He and the last remaining shooter fire on each other. Bad Guy Three is down, Mystery Man makes it to the wall before he collapses." Another click and McGee's stick figure ran onto the scene only to get shot; a car drove onto the scene behind him, and then Abby paused the animation. "This is where it gets purely speculative. There's a blood trail from Mystery Man's position indicating he was dragged somewhere; it vanishes here, where I parked the new vehicle. Makes me thing he was dragged to a car of some kind." She clicked again, and the remaining Bad Guy labels vanished into the car, along with the NCIS label, and the car sped away. "There are cameras in the eastern direction that don't spot a car coming from the scene within half an hour of the shooting being reported, so they would've had to go the other way."

He nodded shortly, already thinking through it in his head. "How much blood from McGee?"

Abby glared at him. "I tracked _Mystery Man's_ blood trail from where I found the only bullet that didn't belong to a body. It was a through and through, Gibbs. I talked to Ducky; he said it was enough that it definitely wasn't a graze, but not enough to make him think it was an artery. He'll probably be fine if he gets to a hospital."

"Hospital are required to call local LEOs with all GSWs, Abs," he muttered, giving the screen a final glance before turning to leave. "Haven't heard anything yet about McGee."

That was the last straw for Abby; she jumped right in front of him before he could leave and shook her head vehemently, voice cracking lack of sleep, reddened eyes showing her iron resolve to cling what was nothing more than a very false hope. "We don't know it's him, Gibbs! We don't have anything to tell us it's him until the blood comes back. It's Mystery Man. Or, I suppose, it could be Mystery Woman, nothing says it can't be a woman-"

"Abs."

She went on without heed for any kind of reasoning on his part, now gesticulating wildly. "Yes, it was McGee's gun found at the scene. Yes, it was his cell phone. Yes, it was his car. You don't need to tell me that, Gibbs! But you know what wasn't found at the scene?! McGee's wallet, McGee's knife, _McGee!"_

"Abby."

"Why, why would they leave his knife with him if they were kidnapping him, did you ever think of that, Gibbs?! What about that he never called in for backup?! Or that he never called one of us?! Mystery Man had car trouble, and McGee, he would've called one of us, Gibbs, but he never did! I think that his car was stolen! We should be looking for the guy who stole his car!" Her eyes suddenly bright, she tried to turn and pounce back onto the case with a new mindset.

Gibbs, once again, had to stop her. "Abby, the blood results."

"What?"

When she looked at him, he just pointed towards the flashing screen. When Abby followed his line of gaze, she froze, then stumbled back with a single mute shake of her head.

When she did not move again, Gibbs swallowed and patted her on the back, forcing himself to move to check them for her. She'd worked personal cases before, she would work this one- and whenever she was able to accept the truth, he knew she'd work herself to death trying to find McGee.

It was getting her to accept it that was the problem.

The blood results were exactly as he had expected.

Four blood samples. Three were from gang members already in the system, each one checking out as one of the bodies down in autopsy.

The fourth picture, a far younger and insanely green Timothy McGee fresh out of university smiling out at him from the static pixels, made his fists clench.

 _We're coming for you, Tim._

* * *

The fingers were already in his hair when Tim woke.

The awareness was instantly far more potent than he could've ever wanted, and he moaned, keeping his eyes shut. It felt like he swallowed a porcupine and it had taken up residence next to his internal organs. He shuddered painfully and the response was a light hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently; it felt so frighteningly cold and he shuddered again, wishing he had the strength to roll away.

"Shush, papito."

There, that voice again. That word again.

This time, the abyss between him and true consciousness was that much smaller, and his drive to _know_ was that much greater, that it was just enough for him to open his eyes.

The room was small and dirty, a disorganized mess; it had the look of an apartment, and not a very nice one at that. The only furniture was the low bed he'd already claimed and what was no small pile in the corner of medical supplies.

The abundance of used, bloodied gauze was startling into he realized it all belonged to him. Then it was dizzying.

He definitely was not in the hospital.

And that was definitely not good.

"Calm down. I did not work through the night to stabilize you for you to ruin it by upsetting yourself!" There was an exceeding light slap on his shoulder, so slight he did not even flinch, but still managing to sting. The lilting, thick accent rolled over an R and he frowned, shifting a centimeter before his chest flared up again. First generation immigrant, it sounded like, from south of the border.

"W-where..."

"Shush."

There was some rustling behind him while Tim just lay there, reeling; his voice had sounded like death itself and the effort to make even a failed attempt to speak had almost wiped him out. How he was alive if not in a hospital was completely beyond him.

Then a dark hand appeared, and the sight held in between two fingers was so tantalizing he almost started drooling. "Ice chips," the woman said, and helped him lift his head enough to take it. "No liquids for at least another day."

The cold moisture just felt so _good._ When the hand reappeared with more he eagerly took it, so absorbed in the ease it brought to his throat he almost forgot to keep analyzing.

Medical knowledge and training, by the sound of it. That had to be good, right?

A moment passed in silence, the still unseen woman sitting behind his head while he gritted his teeth through the pain, trying to focus. He'd gotten here through his monumentally stupid decision to get mixed up in a gang war- and his even stupider decision to not call for backup. He could already feel the headslap coming now.

But that didn't answer _why_ he was here. What use would these people have for a live hostage?It surely had taken a lot of effort for them to keep him alive rather than just leaving him behind to be killed, or perhaps spending the cost of an extra bullet to kill him on the spot. What was going on?

"You are Timothy McGee, yes?" she asked abruptly, and that was enough to make him stiffen. He immediately regretted it, but this time the soothing hand didn't come, waiting for his answer. "My husband found your wallet."

His wallet- driver's license, credit cards, health insurance card... and his shield.

Well, he'd be worried if he hadn't already identified himself as a federal agent to these people.

And now he had an answer to his question. Joe citizen was a pretty strange choice to take a hostage when it was just as easy to leave him for dead. Federal agent was probably one of the best hostages a person could get.

His non-response more than an answered the woman's question, it seemed, because the hand returned to his shoulder. "Sorry, papito," she said pityingly. "You'd best try and sleep. It's only going to get worse for you from here."

He shivered.

 **May 5th, 2008**

The trouble with a kidnapping that came purely from convenience for the kidnappers, and not some previous dispute between victim and criminal, was there was very little to go off of. In normal cases, Gibbs would hunt in the victim's past until he found the key that had led to the case dropping on his desk.

In cases like these, McGee's past would tell him nothing. It was looking like he'd just stumbled into something he shouldn't have, and been grabbed off the street for being in the extreme wrong place at the very worst time. He had to look for something in the kidnapper's past, and that was pretty difficult given that he did not even know who they were; sure, they had a couple guesses, going off what Metro had told them about the two warring gangs that were most likely given those affiliated with the dead bodies, but he'd already headed out and busted all the heads he could find.

No one had known a thing.

Hell, their one potential lead left was that McGee needed a doctor, but no hospitals had so much as reported a GSW for a Caucasian male.

Right now, he was just waiting for Tony to return, his agent currently searching out a criminal informant of his affiliated with the people they thought had taken McGee. But, if Tony didn't find something, he had no idea what their next move could be.

* * *

This time, it wasn't pain or fingers that woke Tim, but voices.

Two. Arguing. Half in Spanish, half in English. One, definitely the woman from earlier, the other, male, someone he didn't recognize.

"He is still not well, Carlos! If you stress him, he- he-" There was a frustrated sigh, then a quick burst of Spanish, and he grimaced. Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva all spoke Spanish; just his luck that he was the one to take latin in high school.

Carlos, though- that was one of the shooters. The only name he could remember from that night.

Fear rising, Tim opened his eyes, searching immediately for anything he could use as a weapon or an escape route. Pain took a backseat to adrenaline and he searched- but there was no weapon in sight. Okay, so plan B. If he was conscious, then the least he could do was try walking.

Except before that, he had to sit up, and that was going to be a problem.

He groaned silently, squeezing his eyes shut, and tried to pull his left hand towards his head. The cold, unyielding bracelet his wrist met and the faint clink in his ears was enough for him to wrench his eyes open again- and, shit. He'd been handcuffed to the bed.

With his own handcuffs, most likely.

There went Plan B.

"Carlos, I don't have what I need here to stabilize him if you hurt him!"

"He can tell us what he knows! I don't have to hurt him!"

"He-"

" _Mama, hora de irse!"_

Tim stiffened. The yell from across the apartment- that was a young boy. There was a child here? Just where the hell was he?

There was a pause, and then the woman's voice came back, harsh and heavy with the weight of a threat. "I come back here and find him in trouble, I take him to hospital, comprende?! You can not make me responsible for someone and then make my job a living hell. Vamanos, Antonio!" There was the sound of quick footsteps and the slamming of a door- then, nothing.

He gulped.

The silence held for a few seconds, such a precious few, and then footsteps came again. This time coming towards him, not retreating, and only stopping when the man was right next to him.

 _Okay, McGee. Calm down. Gibbs is on his way, until he gets here all you need to do is keep your head low and survive. What you can do now is a description of this guy. Just focus on getting a description. And staying calm. Yeah. Stay calm._

He opened his eyes.

Dark skinned, black buzz cut, dark brown eyes, long scar on his right temple. He looked nervous- actually, that was putting it mildly; the man was sweating bullets and looking over him in a show of uncertainty that made Tim feel extremely nervous about that gun still in his shaking hands. He glanced pointedly at it and cleared his throat, working up what little strength he had to speak. "I'm not going anywhere... that really necessary?"

Carlos flinched and looked at it, as if remembering for the first time it was there. He stepped back once, still staring at it, then whipped it back around to point at him in a shaking gesture that made him even more nervous. "You're a cop, right?! You trying to pull something?!"

A nervous guy with a gun was far worse than just about anything else. "J-just trying not to get shot. ...Again."

Carlos turned away, pacing away in a wild circle around the room, one hand twitching shakily through his hair while Tim let out a relieved breath at the gun finally being pointed away from him. He'd be lucky to get through this without getting shot again by the way he was waving that gun around.

"You- you said you were a cop." Carlos spun back to face him, looking no less high-strung than before. "That true?"

Tim hesitated, tense. Was there any point in trying to lie? They already had his NCIS ID; he could hardly get away with it. "...No," he rasped at length, honestly. "I'm a federal agent." As a quick afterthought, he hurriedly tacked on, "Computer specialist." If they thought he was just a hacker, they'd be likely to underestimate him, and right now, he could all of the help he could get.

There was that gun again. "FBI? CIA?"

"NCIS."

The look he received for that was nothing more than a dumb stare.

He sighed heavily only to bee cut short by the pain in his chest. He shut his eyes, restrained hand clenching helplessly while his free one hovered just as purposelessly over the wound. He was too wary of touching it to provoke the sleeping monster but god it could not get much worse than this. "N-Naval... Criminal... I-Investigative Service."

"...Naval what?"

He sighed through gritted teeth, opening his eyes in a slit just enough to glare. "We investigate the navy." _Yes, that's a thing. Please don't ask me about it again because I really don't think I can keep talking for that much longer._

Carlos just looked at him for a moment, obviously thrown and unsure of what to do. Then the waving of the gun returned and Tim flinched back, unable to stop himself from staring at it; he didn't even realize the man had said something else until suddenly Carlos was back in his face- and so was the gun.

"I asked you a question!"

"Woah, woah, woah, calm- calm down!" He jerked back in a panic then gasped, agony rising and leaving him frozen through the hot waves of pain that assaulted him one after the other in a brutal and unforgiving attack. "S-stop... don't sh... shoot..."

"Then tell me who's investigating me!"

Tim lay frozen and wheezing, pulled back as far as possible away from the gun in a complete panic but it felt like his mind had stuttered to a grinding halt. The only thing he wanted to do was diffuse the situation but faced with a twitchy career criminal with his finger on the trigger and suddenly his brain just froze. No ideas for negotiating, no plans for escape- just a complete blankness that almost terrified him more than the gun.

" _Tell me!"_

"I don't know!"

"Yes you do!" The cold metal of the gun nudged against his nose and Tim jerked again, gasping. "You feds all talk to each other! You've got to know!"

"I- I-" he broke off for another desperate breath, squeezing himself back as far away as he could no matter the agony in his chest. "I don't even know who you are! How am I supposed to know who's investigating you?!"

Carlos pulled back again, hand back shaking through his hair, gun dropped down to his side again, and Tim leaned his head back with a dizzying sigh. "You've got to know! We grabbed you because you were a cop, you'd _have_ to know- don't tell me I kidnapped a fed for nothing, man! Don't tell me that!"

He didn't dare speak, anything to keep Carlos still across the room and his gun with him. The man paced again, breathing hard, then abruptly spun back around. "What about- you can find out, right? I've got some piece of shit cop, he snuck into my group, fake ID and all that shit- you could figure out which one it was for me, couldn't you?! You said you were a computer guy- you could hack around and find out, right?!"

Tim almost laughed aloud. Give him a state of the art computer with a good, strong connection and a processor with the power to run a hundred different smokescreens and probes at once, and he'd have Carlos into any agency he wanted. Just give him a week or two. No, scratch that; give him a week or two to recover, then hand him the computer.

But, with what was probably a cheap laptop, the shady wifi for the apartment complex, and a processor that overheated trying to export a video file, it wasn't a matter of time until he got in. It was a matter of time until his probes escalated from being batted aside by the firewalls he'd help design to getting someone's attention. Hacking federal agencies took the hottest skills on the market _and_ the hottest tech. Just having one was not going to cut it.

Then, he realized.

His goal wasn't to help Carlos. His goal was to get out of this alive. And trying to hack federal agencies seemed a surefire way to get SWAT to descend down on this hellhole within the hour.

"Y... Yeah..." he panted shakily, and managed one genuinely terrified nod. "Yeah. I can do that for you. Then he tacked on a bit of an embellishment to sell it. "I'll do anything you want, just don't shoot me."

He was sure Tony would have plenty of critiques to give for the performance, but he wasn't going for an Oscar, just getting out of this with his skin. And it looked like he just might manage it, when Carlos, seemingly convinced, moved to leave in a hurry. The sound of the lock was actually reassuring; it meant he'd be left alone for a while, and he lay his head back with an exhausted sigh, shutting his eyes.

This had to be the craziest thing he had ever done. And, unfortunately for him, crazy wasn't really his thing.

 _Well, McGee, you're just going to have to make it your thing, or else you don't have any hope of getting out of this alive._


	4. Chapter 4

Combine computer issues, migraines, and sudden insomnia, and you get a late chapter. I'm very sorry :(

Also, remember that I said earlier that Tim's kidnapping took place around the end of season five. I'll be using that to explain a few things in this chapter. Thanks for reviewing!

 **May 8th, 2008**

Being unconscious was very easily at least ten times more preferable to being awake. And, no matter the fact that he was in completely hostile territory, Tim would sooner shut his eyes and just try to block everything out than try and hold strong through pulsing pain and gleam more information. Even if it _was_ potentially life-saving information.

The still unnamed woman floated in and out of his cell, but whether as a waking dream or a real life disturbance through a nightmare, he couldn't tell. His few hazy recollections were mixtures of water and carefully measured bites of soft mush spooned into his mouth along with migraines and dry mouth, and caramel skin, hair like night, and hands. Hands that were always cold.

So when that hand returned to his shoulder, a sudden long-fingered chill, he tried just shrugging it off. It gripped tighter, and the young voice returned to his ear, quick and warm. "You've been lying down too long. Time for you to get up."

God. Get up? He'd sooner face the man with the gun again; at least then the end would be quick and not as long as it was agonizing.

"Hey, hey, come on. Come on, Timothy."

Timothy. No one called him that.

The name put him on edge, and he winced, shaking off the last reluctant bits of fog and prying his eyes open. All that was waiting for him was a blur and an arm slid under his shoulders, lifting him upright into a sitting position. He groaned, head rolling and disorientation rising, and the arm just gripped tighter, holding him up when he swayed and almost passed out. "Hold steady. It will pass quickly. Hold steady."

It took more than a few seconds, but, damn it, she was right; his head at last cleared, and Tim blinked rapidly until his eyes watered.

The hand around his shoulders squeezed quickly, and then the plastic of a water bottle was pushed against his lips, and she tilted it up. "Here. Take some."

He gratefully swallowed a few lukewarm mouthfuls, and then the woman moved back again, still holding him upright. "You're recovering quickly. You are one very lucky boy, actually. Bullet goes in one side, out the other, hits no organs- by your pain, I think it, how you say..." She paused for a moment, voice turning hesitant, "knocked? a rib or two? No, that is not right..."

"Nicked," he corrected mildly, voice a mere rasp, then winced. By the feel of it, she was definitely right. He'd also been right that this woman was a first generation immigrant. Immigrant communities could be isolated; her strong accent and trouble with English didn't mean she was necessarily very new to the US, but it was either that, or she hardly left her own tight knit family. Bad news for him. If she was undocumented, she wouldn't trust the police, period. On the unlikely event she was legal, she probably still wouldn't trust the police; most immigrants didn't.

The woman, oblivious to his thoughts, just nodded again, the motion only visible through the dark shift of her hair in the corner of his eye. "Ah. Nicked. I see." She tested out the new word again. "Nicked. Interesting."

Breathing heavily, Tim still leaned against her, eyes half shut now against the headache he could feel coming on. "You a doctor?"

The woman shook her head now, hair brushing against his left shoulder. "No. Nurse. ...Or, I was. My degree from _Benemérita Universidad Autónoma de Puebla_ has no standing in _Los Estados Unidos de América_... I work as night janitor now. Much experience with stitching, though. Particularly bullet wounds. I used to see many every day, sometimes when the _médico_ was out. I learned." She chuckled quietly and patted his shoulder again. "Luckily for you, Timothy."

The story was a sad one, but unfortunately typical, and he didn't comment on it. Instead, coughing, he went on when his breath was strong enough. "You've got me at a... a disadvantage..."

"Hmm?"

He laughed hoarsely. Worse than Ziva. "What's your name?"

"Oh. Estela." And at last the woman moved forward enough for him to really see her.

She had a warm, heart-shaped face framed on one side by a dark ponytail. The silver chain of her necklace was pulled up so the charm was hidden underneath her loose, bloodstained, black shirt, one latex-gloved hand still fiddling with the chain. The gloves were dotted red, too.

She gave him the slightest of smiles.

The bang of the door was so loud, it sent a chill down his spine- and a dark cloud over her face. The hand on his shoulder clenched, and she glared towards the door for an instant, muttering a curse, then looked back at him gave another rough smile. "I will fix this."

Estela was up on her feet instantly, one arm still on him and the other quickly pulling up a pillow at his back, giving him the thinnest version of the support he so desperately needed, but all her attention was towards the door. " _Qué estás hacie-"_

"I've got the computer! I've got the computer!"

"Carlos?!"

"I've got your computer, you can, can... see the... file. Come on, please, you gotta get it f-for m-m-me!"

Tim stared, aghast. Carlos had made his long anticipated- or, alternatively, terrifying- return. The gun was in his waistband this time, a slim silver computer held up like a trophy in both of his hands- Tim grimaced at the very sight. A Macbook? Yeah. Just hand him an OS he wasn't familiar with and hardware he hadn't used since college. Were they trying to make this even more impossible than it already was?

Then he blinked and actually looked at the man holding the computer, and realized something was wrong besides the tech. He'd sweated completely through his white shirt and was shaking like a leaf, trembling so badly Tim found himself fearing for the computer's welfare. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated, and he stood there doubled over in pain, laptop hugged against his chest and features torn with agony...

God, he looked like he was going through withdrawal.

He'd be too shaky to aim, which was a plus- but Carlos alsowouldn't think twice about shooting him now.

Tim shut his eyes in sinking terror.

Estela and Carlos were arguing now, and by what snatches of English he could grab, he wasn't the only one to realize Carlos's beyond intoxicated state, and Estela was not happy at all. He found himself praying for her to win out; convincing Carlos, in his state, was going to be impossible, but he really didn't want him to stay in here and he _really_ didn't want her to go. Estela argued in a whirl of jabbed fingers and fiery jabs, stalking over the thin, creaky floor, her eyes flashing all the while; Carlos was all panic and incoherence. Tim watched with bated breath, waiting for the shoe to drop.

" _Aye Dios mios!_ Your brother is complete trash, Carlos! _Trash!_ That _hijo de puta_ gets you hooked on this _poison_ , controls you with it- how can you not see?! What, he'll give you more if you get answers from this guy? You-"

"You d-don't understand... I'm hurting so bad, _hermanita_. I'm hurting and he'll... he'll give me more..."

With those broken words, Estela's fiery anger cooled. She ducked her head for a moment, shoulders trembling in rage, hair shielding everything but the outline of sheer regret through her entire form.

At least, Estela's dark eyes turned to him. The angry resignation in them told him everything he needed to know.

The door slammed even harder on her way out than on Carlos's way in, and then the man was on him, wrestling up even straighter with such force he was blinded by pain and knocked breathless.

"Here!" Carlos cried, shoving the laptop into his one free hand while Tim just struggled to stop wheezing. _"Find that file!"_

One-handed. So dizzy he could barely, and in so much pain he could barely breathe. Junkie on withdrawal with a gun by his side demanded results.

A drop of sweat rolled down the back of his neck and, tremulously, Tim opened the laptop.

* * *

When the elevator dinged, the rise of hope that came was undeniably childish. It was also so strong it was all Abby could do to stop herself from turning to run out into the hall to see who it was.

When she saw it wasn't Gibbs, back from LA and home where he belonged, with people who loved him, after what happened- or even better, Tim, to tell her this past week was all just a really bad dream- but Ducky, she made herself turn away, looking back towards her many screens through teary eyes. "I don't deserve a Caf-Pow right now, Ducky. Not until I find this car.

"Then I will wait here until you undoubtedly do so." The doctor moved to join her, staring for a few moments at the many programs she had running, but, as usual, he very quickly lost interest in what she knew he couldn't help but view as the mechanical and the drab. "Ah, is this the tire track found outside of the diner?"

She managed one strong nod before her defenses started to weaken and more tears slipped through. "Yes. Only survivor so it has to be the one who killed... who killed..." The hurt that flared up at the name choked her off and she stopped, shutting her eyes tight. "Who killed..."

"Director Shepard," Ducky finished gently.

There was a slight pause, and Abby tried harder to focus through it. None of this was right; none of this made sense. Tony and Ziva shouldn't have even been in LA at all. Gibbs had fought like hell to get other agents assigned; the team was supposed to be looking for _Tim,_ not working as routine bodyguards for the director- but Jenny had demanded the agency's best, and in the end, it hadn't even made a difference. She was still just as dead. And Tim was still just as missing. And _everything_ was still just as wrong.

The alarm was so unexpected it was enough to give her pause, and it would've been a welcome distraction into mournful reminiscence if she wasn't so committed to getting this work done now. She turned towards the culprit with a vengeance, fists clenching when she read flashing message.

"Unauthorized access attempt?" Ducky quoted in confusion and pointed. "What does that mean?"

"It means someone is trying to hack my lab." Abby stared, incredulous at first, and just watched the hacker's progress. It was embarrassingly slow; no one who worked at that speed should've been good enough to catch her attention. How had they gotten through the initial firewalls?

"I'd imagine that happens daily," Ducky chuckled, "why are you getting an alarm about someone going after NCIS?"

"No, not NCIS; specifically _my_ lab- god, I do not have time for this. You son of a bitch, _get out of my lab!_ " She set about stopping the would-be hacker in his tracks. Curiously slow or not, there was too much going on for her to look into this; she just had _too much_ to deal with and _way_ too much on her mind for a little hacker to waste her time. "I don't know who you are, I don't know what you want, but by god you are going to regret the day you set your sights on my lab, dirtbag! I'll give you herpes so fast you won't know what hit you."

"Herpes, my dear?!"

"My own creation," she said with a vicious smile. "It'll run his motor so fast he'll be shut down and then still be waiting for him in the hardware when he turns it back on."

"You... you mean a computer virus."

She glanced at Ducky and nodded once, then launched her program. "Of course-"

"Ms. Sciuto, any hit on the tire yet?"

They both jumped, and Abby turned furiously on the next invader into her lab before stopping short at the sight of assistant director Vance. She glared at the sight of him, ire rising. His presence here was yet another reminder of just how wrong everything was, him and his toothpick chewing and his insistence on procedure and his place in the director's chair-

"Ms. Sciuto?"

Rubbing her eyes, she made herself turn back to her computer, looking now at the stalled progress of the hacker. "Nothing yet."

Vance leaned over her shoulder, looking at her dismantling of the hacker's attack and leaving her standing still, arms folded now, head down stubbornly. "This a common occurrence, Ms. Sciuto?"

The formality, the stiffness, the _Ms. Sciuto-_ none of it was right. Abby shook her head once, still silent and stubborn, and Vance sighed. "Director Shepard is your only case for now. If the hacker didn't gain any info, shut him down and move on."

"But I-"

"Now, Ms. Sciuto."

The assistant director left, and, with a miserable sigh, Abby watched as her virus did its work. The moment the hacker was forced out- even if the sight had given her a perverse sense of pleasure- she returned to the tire mark.

* * *

In the short minutes before the laptop shut off, Tim honestly enjoyed himself, just a little, watching everything go to hell. Abby's virus was a true masterpiece. Just based off what he could see now he could tell this computer was so infected it'd take him weeks to clear it out and he couldn't help but grin; she'd stolen a few tricks from him.

The knocked fist against his head when the screen went black was enough to wipe the smile away.

"What happened?! What the hell did you do?! Everything was right there- why'd it turn off?! _Why it'd turn off?!"_

"I don't know," Tim gasped, bracing himself with his chained hand when another punch sailed his way. His head was pounding already and now he could barely see; the second whack came from the butt of the gun and he slammed onto his back, wheezing. "I d-don't... know...'

" _You've got to find it!_ If you don't- if you don't- oh, god, I need it... _find the file now!"_

" _There's not even a singular file!_ " The breakthrough came in a hoarse scream, the knowledge that with any luck Abby was tracing the connection right now and someone would come busting through the door soon taking a backseat in the face of tension and terror. His fraying hold on his reaction shattered and he forgot caution and safety entirely in place of a complete breakdown that had been long in coming. " _If_ there's even an investigation on you, they'll be multiple files, possible spread through multiple agencies! I can't possibly find _anything_ with this piece of junk! I can't possibly find anything with you breathing down my neck! I _probably_ won't find anything at all no matter what you-"

" _Find it!"_ The butt of the gun smacked against his shoulder. _"Find it!"_ His face. _"Find it!"_ The back of his head. _"Find it!"_ The back of his head again. _"Find it!"_ Again. _"FIND IT!"_

Again... and again... and again...

 _Gibbs..._

White hot pain burst out at the impact of the gun again and he fell forward, agony growing in the face of blinding light.

 _Please come..._

 **August 20th, 2008**

The team had been slogging away at the case all day with no progress. It was nearing the usual quitting time- not that any of them would leave- but Gibbs couldn't well justify ordering anyone to stay when they had no leads. They couldn't even interview McGee yet; he wouldn't be awake until the next morning.

It _irritated_ him that they had no leads. And Gibbs did not like being _irritated._

It reminded him of when Ari had blazoned a pathway through NCIS, taking out more than one good man and taking aim at his team then traipsing straight out the door with a smirk, and leaving him with nothing more to go off of than that same smirk in picture form for months. Having no leads, nothing at _all_ to investigate or go off of, was bad under normal circumstances. When it was his own team that had been threatened, and was _still_ being threatened, it was dammed infuriating.

One glance around the silent bullpen, Tony glaring at his monitor and Ziva staring off into space, arms folded, and Gibbs looked towards his own computer. It was nothing more than fatigued habit that had him checking his email at the popup reminding him of his many unread messages. He scrolled through them without comprehension- then stopped short at the top of the list.

 _The sender..._

 _Oh my god._

Gibbs hadn't ever been so anxious at the sight of an email since that first one had come in, interrupting a two month long nightmare with McGee at last appearing to tell him it was not over yet.

He clicked on it, heart pounding.

 _Agent gibs Tim said not to email you for a week but then I had to move I got worried you wouldn't find me even though Tim said you would. The bad guy came, I reconized him from Dad's friends, Tim said if I saw any of them Ineeded to run. I ran from the apartment as far as I could but I don't know where I am anymore. I snuck into a shelter but its really scary here agent gibs and the phone's losing battery and I don't know how long I can do hide here. please come! Also is Tim ok? He tried to hide it but he was really sick before he left. He promised he'd be fine but I'm really worried about him. He'd say he was fine alot when he was really sick or hurt and I want him to be okay. please come as fast as you can_

Gibbs sat, stunned.

This was bad.

Really, really bad.

 _That email's only dated an hour ago,_ he realized, and drew in a breath, mind racing. There could still be time.

At very long last, a plan formed.

 _This is Agent Gibbs. You need to get out of there now! The bad guy can track this and may be on his way there now. I am on my way to you. Turn the phone off right now, he can track you through it, then turn it back on in two hours and call me: 555-2964, and tell me where you are. Wait for me._

One read through later and he'd sent the email, jabbed the power button, and was on his feet. "Tony, something comes up, you handle it."

"Wait- what? You're leaving now?!"

Gibbs didn't respond, already a jog towards the elevator. He waited only two seconds for it to come before he took off at a run for the stairs, far too impatient to stand there still for another moment, and headed straight for Abby's lab. "Abby!" he called, stopping at the door and quickly scrawling down the email address and password down on a nearby notepad, then called for her again. "Hey! Abby!"

She didn't respond.

That was fine when they didn't have any leads.

It wasn't fine now.

" _Abby!"_ he barked out, and grabbed the remote off her table and turned her music off with a snap. "You're mad at me; fine, but you are not going to let that interfere in this case. Tim wasn't just running from that fed, Abby. He was protecting someone. And I just got an email from that someone telling me he was in danger."

Her stubborn mask at last shifted, anger slipping as she turned to look at him, eyes wide, and he nodded once, pushing the notepad into her chest. "Again, you want to be angry with me, then do it. But don't sabotage everything Tim went through and worked for through it. Trace it. Now."

"...Gibbs-"

" _Now,_ Abby."

Her lower lip trembling, the scientist took the notepad and set it down, green eyes wide. She did a double take at the email address but when he didn't let up on the stare, quickly went on to search it. "Just a second... okay. Here's the address."

* * *

Gibbs' sudden absence was generally a sign for concern. So was Fornell's sudden appearance.

Tony frowned, watching with narrowed eyes as the FBI agent stormed their squad room. He glanced towards Ziva uneasily and murmured, "On your six," even as he stood, already on edge. Ziva turned just slightly and stopped herself when she saw who was coming, her eyes narrowed as well.

"Where the hell is Gibbs?"

Gibbs had to have a sixth sense for these things. That was the only way he could manage to vanish every time something like this was about to happen. "Well, good afternoon to you, too, Agent Fornell," he said back, smirk of a smile in place to greet him. "And what can we, the very special agents of NCIS, do to help you this-"

"Stow it, DiNozzo; where is Gibbs?"

He glanced at Ziva over Fornell's shoulder again. She was frowning as well and of no help whatsoever, just watching on silently; with a sigh Tony reverted his attention to Fornell again and still tried to stall. "Well, I don't know, have you tried calling him? You know, that's generally the best way to contact someone, you know, besides storming into their place of business unannounced. Think he had a couple ex-wives who did that, probably contributed to the divorces, though those were inevitable anyway- did ex-wife number two do that to you, too? I wouldn't be surprised, you know, knowing her, she's a real-"

"Gibbs isn't here, is he."

"...Nope."

Fornell groaned and turned away, shaking his head at Gibbs' desk. "Now I know why he's not answering my calls. He's off the reservation." He stood still for a moment, staring at the empty desk, then turned back to the both of them in annoyance. "And I suppose neither of you can tell me why exactly there's a guard on my suspect at the hospital who won't let anybody but Agent Gibbs pass?"

"What?!"

"Your _suspect?!"_

Ziva was on her feet now, too, but Tony barely even noticed, too shocked by what had been said. Fornell at least looked a little surprised at their intense reaction and nodded slightly, shrugging. "Got an anonymous tip that you guys had picked up my shooter. Long undercover case that ended with our plant being shot execution style a few weeks ago." The FBI agent paused and looked between the two of them suspiciously. "You mind telling me just what the hell is going on here?"

Tony stood still, hands clenched against his desk. Anonymous tip that _McGee-_ never mind no one was supposed to know he'd been found- had shot one of Fornell's people, back when, according to Gibbs, McGee had been on the run?

Or, the still unknown fed after McGee had somehow found out he'd been found, and was trying to get to him to stop the truth from coming out.

It wasn't hard to guess which one it was.

 **May 9th, 2008**

There was a team of sentient jackhammers going off it in his head, drilling straight into the source of his migraine with the sole purpose of finding the wickedly malfunctioning neurotransmitter responsible and replicating it until it killed him.

Wait- sentient jackhammers?

 _Get the hell out of my head, Tony._

Sentient jackhammers, god... he was sure there was a movie about it.

Tentative diagnosis of a concussion became confirmed when nausea, and he turned blindly, moaning, eyes still squeezed shut, until bile rose and he heaved over the side of the bed. The handcuff still pulled at his wrist and what little of his hopes there were dissolved- he still hadn't been found yet.

"G-Gibbs..." he groaned, twitching through the pain, "Tony... s-someone..."

"Agent Gibbs: one of the top agents at NCIS DC headquarters. Rumored as on the short list to be the next director, but it seems he does not play politics well. I did not come across this Tony, however... care to enlighten?"

Tim couldn't exactly freeze, still struggling through the rebellion of his insides, but this time he shuddered entirely from fear and not at all from pain.

"Oh. Apologies- manners, of course. The name's Jeffery, Agent McGee. I'd shake your hand- but, well, I just washed mine." Footsteps thudded away from him, each one another nail drilled through his skull, and he forced himself to open his eyes. He squinted through the migraine and looked around the room, trying in vain to focus on the figure against the wall.

"Now, when my brother told me he thought he could get information out of you, he didn't tell me that entailed handing you a computer. Sorry for waisting your time... he's now properly medicated and banned from speaking with you. You did manage to kill a thousand dollar computer, though." The man tossed the earlier laptop towards him carelessly; it thumped against his chest and bruised and broken ribs and Tim cried out, yet another hot flash of pain joining the continuous pounding in his head.

Jeffery paused for a moment, arms folded, then moved to stand by the door, leaning against the wall still. "I'm a kind man. I'll accept information over monetary payment. ...Assuming, of course, Carlos did not manage to beat anything helpful right out of your head." He flicked the lights off briefly, and god was that darkness welcome. Tim groaned in relief, shaking at the tiniest lessening of the hellish migraine.

So, this was the brother Estela had mentioned. He vaguely remembered her not liking him but he seemed like a rational human being, something that was sorely lacking around here, and he couldn't help but be relieved. With only Jeffery in the room, he didn't feel like he was in imminent danger of being shot by a complete lunatic- and trying to negotiate no longer seemed like a guarantee for another concussion.

"L-look," he wheezed, weakly working himself up on one arm before the nausea rose again. "I _really_ don't know anything. Who you guys are, any investigation... if there e-even is one... it'd probably be FBI- I'm N... NCIS."

"Oh, I know. That's fine."

The lights flicked on, and Tim gasped, reeling backwards. The migraine burst forward in a blinding white curse again and Jeffery's footsteps shifted from faint thuds to resounding booms, each one an isolated torture that escalated until the threw up again, until his stomach ached and his throat was raw.

"Agent McGee," Jeffery went on casually, "I had briefly considered using your computer skills to find the agents behind the investigation into my group. Because, let me assure you that there is one. But, I decided that was too risky."

Blessed darkness again, and Jeffery crouched beside him, a hazy figure that wavered between blinks and left him shaking through another wave of nausea. "I am determined to get my worth out of you, though. Kidnapping a federal agent has its risks, and you are going to make those risks worth it."

A hot hand landed smoothly on top of his, and it just sat there for a second, silently threatening.

Then with an instant grace that reminded him far too much of Gibbs, it turned into a pinning grip and two fingers curled around his thumb and yanked it.

Hard.

A choked whimper rose and he twisted, trembling in agonized shock.

With a pat on the now broken thumb, just a light pat that had him trapped in another set of spasms, Jeffery rose to his feet. "Classified information can be sold to the highest bidder. And no matter what business one is in, money is money. ...I think I'll leave you to consider your options."

The door shut at the same time the lights shot back on, leaving Tim curled on his side, head ponding, hand burning, stomach roiling, and throat still aching- and despair rising.

Carlos may have been a gun waving lunatic, but he'd just found the next worst thing.

"Good god," he whispered hoarsely, staring towards the door in horror. The rancid scent of old, dried blood reached him, and the fact that it could've been from anywhere from his unhealed gunshot wound to the crusted clumps on the back of his head had him back on his side again, struggling not to throw up.

The fact that he was conscious after Carlos's beating on his head had to mean it'd been long enough that the team should've found him by now.

It was safe to say they weren't coming.

What the hell had he done wrong?! Tim lay back miserably, struggling to think through the layers of agony. He'd gotten through to Abby's lab, he was sure of it; that virus hadn't been standard NCIS protocol built into the firewall. The only thing that would've been easier to access would've been his own computer, but there was no guarantee anyone was checking that- her lab had been his safest bet. He'd helped her construct most of the firewalls; he knew backdoors in. And he was sure he'd gotten in.

Abby would never let any invasion into her lab get away with only a virus... and there was no way _Carlos_ had managed to safeguard the signal from being traced.

There was something he wasn't seeing here.

And, he realized, looking down at his already purpling, swelling thumb, he didn't have time to lie here and try to figure it out.

 _I have to figure out another plan. There's not much time..._

Except what kind of a better plan would there be then the one he'd already tried?! He'd gotten a hold of a computer- something that was sure to never happen again- and as good as drawn them a map to his location. How was he supposed to manage _that_ again?

And no matter how hopeless it was, he couldn't stop himself from the hopeless pondering about _why_ it hadn't worked the first time.

Abby always tried to trace every probe into her lab that got as far as his had. His probe should've been traceable. Therefore, she should've had his location.

Him having just gone missing, them having the location of an unknown hacker- and Abby knew his style, she should've made the connection it was him anyway- they should've realized what was going on, or at least sent someone to check it out...

Then he gasped.

That line of thinking was hinging off him only being trapped here for a few days.

If he'd been here for several days, his case would still be hot. A mysterious hacked probe into Abby's lab would make them draw the connection to him because they'd be working his case.

But, he really had no idea how long he'd been here for.

Tim struggled to look down at the reddened gauze still taped to the right side of his chest. He very tentatively probed it with a shaking finger; when the expected burst of pain didn't come, and in its stead, he just provoked a terrible, spreading ache, he knew he'd been here for far longer than just a few days.

Being in a hospital, such healing would take probably take at least a week.

With no access to any conventional medicine whatsoever, who knew how long it would take.

If it had been weeks...

 _They won't still be on my case,_ he realized, horrified. And if they weren't on his case...

It would be different for any of the others. Gibbs would move heaven and earth for Tony or Ducky; the idea that he would've reluctantly backed off from a case in a mere week was laughable. Abby was his favorite; even she didn't dispute that- he'd shoot first and ask questions later no matter who stood in his ways. And despite Ziva still being the, technically, newest member of the team, she and Gibbs had a deep bond none of them fully understood. Something had happened between those two, and whatever it was, she had earned his trust faster than any of them. If she went missing, Tim had no doubt Gibbs would get to her, no matter the cost.

But he'd been missing for only a week.

Nothing.

"Sh-shut up," he whispered weakly, shutting his eyes against the pounding light. "Stop overthinking it. Gibbs _was_ looking for you, just as hard as he would've looked for any of the others... there just has to not be a trail. That's all."

He sound not convincing at all, even to his own ears, and saying it had only left himself feeling empty inside, like voicing the poison had left the festering wound to drain but done nothing for the original hurt.

The sound of the lock clicking in the door again made his heart jump, and he found himself curling away from it, good hand clenching in pure reflex. Jeffery, Carlos, Estela? _What now?_

But the shadow in the doorway wasn't tall enough to be any of them.

He stared, confusion rising above even pain, as the thin door creaked open an inch further. The figure moved a few steps inside- until he transformed from a shadow into a wide-eyed little boy standing just barely in the light, clinging to the door like it was a lifeline.

Definitely not a lunatic with a gun. Definitely not a finger-breaking, collected sociopath.

This was just a kid.

...What was going on here?

"...Um... Hello," Tim croaked.

"...Hi."

* * *

 _If anyone of you know Spanish and would be willing to help me, please review or PM and say you're interested. I only took latin and, well, we all know Google translate is trash. You'd only be helping me with short phrases from Estela, Carlos, and co., nothing extensive, and you will be credited. Thanks in advance!_


End file.
